Time Tells
by somethingsdont
Summary: EC. “Four years and seven girlfriends later, your name still belongs to her lips only.” Lost love: never lost, always love. Epilogue up!
1. Chapter 1: Eric

**Title**: Time Tells  
**Author**: Lucy (somethingsdont)  
**Pairing**: Eric/Calleigh  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Timeline**: Post-season 5  
**Summary**: Lost love: never lost, always love.  
**Notes**: Every chapter posted here is PG-13; NC-17 versions are linked. I started writing this after season 5 ended so none of this takes into account how season 6 and beyond may or may not render the progress or outcome of this story obsolete.

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**Chapter 1: Eric**

Calleigh had once called you a 'quiet lover.' She had said this while the two of you were leaning against the railing at the pier, watching the beautiful Miami sunset. You loved bringing her here. The ocean was your second home, after all, and it seemed so easy to share a piece of your ease with her. Her words were softer here, her form less stoic. It was at the pier where she shared the most precious of her childhood memories with you. It was here that she allowed you to steal spontaneous kisses without tensing up. This was _your_ pier.

That day, windy late-August, she had let your name slip from her lips.

_"Eric?"_

_You smile. "Calleigh?" You mimic her tone._

_She says nothing for so long that if you hadn't known this was the pace at which you communicated at the pier, you would've been worried she was angry at you. But you know, so you wait patiently. Sometimes, the pauses between traces of dialogue are so lengthy that a simple conversation about where to have dinner would stretch out over three hours._

_When she finally speaks, she rests her head on your upper arm. She can't quite reach your shoulder, and you consider how perfect that is. "You," she says, reaching for your hand. "You are my quiet lover."_

_The silence does not last long this time. You frown, unsure of what she had meant. "Quiet lover?" you ask, furrowing your brows._

_She smiles then, and her cheeks flush uncharacteristically. "In bed," she whispers softly, eliciting an embarrassed chuckle from you. "You're always so quiet."_

_"I—"_

_But she hadn't wanted or needed an explanation, so she interrupts your awkward start and goes on to elaborate. "I thought—" She pauses, trying to hide the grin that threatens to burst across her face. "I always thought you'd be rougher." Her voice is still low, dangerously so._

_"Yeah?" Your own voice is raspy and raw, your vocal chords vibrating unevenly._

_You feel her nod against your arm. She is silent for a moment, letting your mind process her words. Her head lifts off your arm and she turns to study your face. "Do you know how I know you're close?"_

_A flush creeps up your body and you feel your pulse quicken. You take your eyes off the sunset and turn to see a mischievous smile playing on her face. You decide to play along. You place a gentle kiss on the corner of her mouth. "How?"_

_Calleigh turns back to the sunset, now almost completely submerged under the Miami tides. "If I tell you, you might get self-conscious and try to hide the signs."_

_She wears such a straight face that you're almost not sure whether she's joking or not. But then you remember where you are and run your thumb over her fingers. "I won't."_

_You can tell that you haven't convinced her. You wait a few moments to lull her into a false sense of security, before flipping her over so that her back is to the railing and pinning her against it. You enjoy the comfort of this new position only for a second, however, as you notice her hand is resting on her gun, halfway drawn out of its holster._

_You raise your hands in forfeit, but keep your hips pressed against hers. She smiles, because she has confirmed that her gun still scares you. She pushes her gun back into place and pulls her jacket over it again._

_Now that your life is no longer in immediate danger, you lean down to capture her lips with your own. You run your tongue along her upper lip, requesting access. When her lips part and she offers, however, you pull away gently._

_She gives you a look that tells you that you are insane, and you have to agree with her. Then, you remember why you had risked death and flipped her over in the first place. "Tell me?" you ask, in your most innocent voice._

_She stares at you incredulously, a confused look on her face._

_You laugh softly and rest your forehead on hers, bracing yourself for her response. "How do you know when I'm close?"_

_You can hear her weighing the pros and cons in her head. The pros and cons of putting a bullet through your forehead. Instead, she smiles, which scares you more than if she had pistol-whipped you across the face. Slowly, she slips her hands into your unzipped jacket and drags her nails down the side of your body, your shirt offering little separation from her fingers. When she reaches your pants, she dips the tips of her fingers below your waistline. You close your eyes in anticipation, but she stops._

_She stands on her tiptoes to reach your ear. "It's a secret."_

Later that night, she had confessed that she could tell by the way the muscles in your upper thighs clenched, by your erratic breathing, and by the urgency in your eyes.

In hindsight, you realize that Calleigh had been a 'messy lover.' She had the louder moan and deployed profanity to display frustration. You laugh at the irony. She was always the calm, rational one on the field and in the lab. She was guarded and difficult to read. You had thought she would be quiet or cautious during sex, but she was a complete _fiend_.

Suddenly, you wonder how the conversation would have played out if you were the one to tell her that she was your 'messy lover.' Your heart constricts in its cavity when you realize that you would never know, because you would never ask her. You curse yourself, because it's been four years. Four years and seven girlfriends later, your name still belongs to her lips only.

_"Eric."_

_Calleigh's voice is nothing like it was five minutes ago, when she was calling out your name in the throes of passion. It betrays her fear and hints at uncertainty. Your name suddenly sound so unfamiliar to your ears. You push yourself up and rest your weight on your forearms. You watch her lie underneath you until your arms feel like they are ready to fall off. Her eyes are closed, and you begin to doubt whether you had really heard her voice or not. She is so silent and so still for so long that you think she has fallen asleep. Careful not to disturb her, you roll off her and sit up beside her naked body. She looks so beautiful lying there, her blonde hair splayed across the pillow, her lips slightly swollen. You reach for the discarded covers and pull them over her body, covering her curves and claiming them for yourself. You find your boxers on the floor and slip them on, contemplating a visit to the bathroom._

_"Eric."_

_You know you didn't imagine it this time, and you turn to see Calleigh staring back at you. Her eyes are red, and the corners of her eyes moist. Your heart clenches when you realize that you can't immediately take her away from whatever was hurting her. You lean toward her, but she shakes her head vehemently and pulls away._

_"Eric—"_

_Her latest attempt is equally useless; her voice hitches in her throat, and her face turns into a sharp shade of pink from holding in her tears. You want desperately to hold her, but you are scared she will fight you away if you try. You grasp for words instead. "Calleigh, you don't have to be brave." And even though you have no idea what this is about, you can sense the necessity, and your generic words are safe and apply to all situations. "I'll be brave for you. Just this once."_

_She takes a few deep breaths and stares at the ceiling. You are freezing; the window is open and you are shirtless, but you sense that she needs your stillness, so you stay put, listening to your heartbeats in the air._

_For the first time in ten months, or maybe in six years, they are out of sync._

_Calleigh's voice cuts through the inconsistent silence and turns your world upside down with a handful of quiet words. "I'm transferring to Boston."_

_You feel like a 300-pound linebacker has fallen from five stories up and has landed on your chest. You are unable to process the words she has spoken. You are sure your mouth is hanging open unattractively, but you neither care to nor are able to close it. You feel blindsided by this information. She is still watching the ceiling, her face unchanged. When you finally recover a fragment of your voice, only one word escapes from your dry lips._

_"When?"_

_"I leave today."_

_Suddenly, you find it increasingly difficult to breathe. You feel the bile rising in your throat and your stomach convulses. But you haven't had anything to eat yet, so you vomit nothing but stomach acid. The awful taste in your mouth is nothing compared to the awful feeling at the pit of your stomach, or the awful feeling tugging at your heartstrings._

_Your 'why' is barely audible, but you know she hears you, because she flinches._

_"I have seniority. Horatio would've had to fire you, and I know how much this job means to you." For once, you wish her voice would betray emotion, her words be anything other than the stiff, practiced lines she was feeding you._

_You stand up and begin to pace the room, running your hand through your hair repeatedly. "Not as much as you mean to me," you say bitterly. "Don't do this to me, Cal." But you know she has made up her mind, and there is little you can do to persuade her otherwise. You slam your fist against the wall. "Damn it, Calleigh!"_

_You storm out of the bedroom and make your way to the kitchen, the room farthest from where she lay. You lean against the counter and press your forehead against the cabinet, your feet bare against the cool linoleum floor. Your head is still spinning. You had known when you got involved that she was fully capable of destroying you like this, but you had taken the risk. Now, standing alone, you fail to understand her reasoning, her logic behind this transfer. She had never been an easy girl to read, but you had thought you knew her better than this._

_She doesn't even say goodbye when she leaves. Your only indication of her departure is the sound of the door; it clicks with a peculiar finality._

You had spent the next four years washing yourself of her memory. At first, you had tried to hate her. After all, she _had known_ it was your last meeting, and she hadn't told you. She had given herself a chance to prepare, at the very least. But you, you were hit from behind by a bullet the size of a small boulder. It was selfish, you decide, because she hadn't given you a chance for a last kiss, a last touch that you could commit to memory. If you had known earlier, you would have kissed her with a desperation so great, it would have convinced her to stay.

But you realize then that _that_ was precisely the reason she hadn't let you comfort her, before she broke the news. The reassurance that maybe you weren't the only one drowning had been a welcome feeling, but merely a blip on your emotional radar.

You had taken a few days off work, but Horatio had tried to keep you busy. You had wanted to ask him for her number, but you felt pathetic for even thinking it. He probably wouldn't have coughed it up, anyway. He never mentioned the incident, and you had no desire to strike up a conversation with him about it, so the words were left unsaid and eventually faded. Besides, you had access to the internet, to phone directories around the world. You could have found her if you had really wanted to. But what would you say to her? You had figured she would either hang up on you immediately or listen to you beg and plead for a minute, then hang up. You wouldn't have been able to take it, and so you live in the vague understanding that you'd never know for sure.

The new ballistics expert was nowhere near as smart or pretty as Calleigh, but he did his job. If you had met him outside this lab, you could even see the two of you becoming friends. But it was too difficult to be nice to him when he stood in Calleigh's lab, sat in Calleigh's chair. Despite the initial resistance, you had eventually accepted Ryan because he slowed down the bleeding from Speed's death. You needed Ryan to be a friend, and he had, more or less, given you that. Gregory Johnson could _never_ give you what Calleigh had given you.

Slowly, you begin to heal. You focus on the little steps you take. You lean on Ryan, on Valera, on Cooper, even on Natalia. If the rest of the team had been gossiping, you never heard a word of it.

There were still moments of weakness. The heart never fully heals from loss. You had known this all along, because some nights you still cried for Speed and Marisol. The recovery from Calleigh is slow, and old memories are blurry around the edges in your head, but still all too clear.

Tonight, you find yourself at the pier. You haven't been here in so long, not since the day she slipped out of your apartment for the last time. Something draws you here tonight, however; you realize it has been exactly ten years since you met Calleigh for the first time at the Miami-Dade crime lab. You stumble to the place that the two of you had made your own. The sun has long set tonight, but you appreciate the darkness. You close your eyes and picture her there next to you, her head leaning against your arm, her fingers threading through your own.

You wonder if she remembers that it has been ten years today. You wonder if she still remembers _you_. You sigh, and you wonder when you will stop torturing yourself like this.

The dull ring of your cell phone jars you from your reverie. You silently curse whoever is interrupting your moment. As unreasonable as it sounds, you feel like they are trespassing on you and Calleigh's territory. It's a number – 617 area code – that you don't recognize. You almost ignore the call, but you remember your first job as a telemarketer, so you answer out of pity.

"Delko." There is an edge to your voice. Nobody responds, but you can hear heavy but random and rapid breathing on the other end. Something at the pit of your stomach tells you not to hang up.

Patience is something Calleigh taught you, so many years ago. So you wait, and two minutes pass before the voice at the other end speaks, but it is barely audible. "I'm sorry I—"

You close your eyes and begin to shake violently, despite the warm weather. Your hand shakes so much that you nearly drop your cell phone into the ocean. The fingers of your free hand grip the railing in front of you until your cuticles turn white. Your legs have trouble holding your weight up, so you gracelessly find your way into a sitting position.

"Cal—" Her name through your lips suddenly makes this all too real. As much as you hate crying, especially in front of other people, it's too much too abruptly, and your tears fog your vision, rolling slowly to the wooden planks of the pier.

You can hear her silently crying at the other end. "I miss you," she offers finally, her voice wavering.

Without missing a beat, you reply, "I need you."

She lets out a bitter, tearful laugh. "Don't say that," she pleads quietly.

"I need you," you repeat, a little softer.

You listen to each other cry for a few minutes, needing the release more than either would have admitted. When sobs are replaced by hiccups, which eventually subside, you spontaneously begin to speak.

"You," you begin, testing the words in your throat. "You are my messy lover."

She makes the connection immediately. "You're at the pier," she assesses, her voice laced with caution.

You nod. You know she can't see you, but the emotion washes over you again, your voice lost momentarily.

She swallows and takes a breath. "How have you been?" But her own question makes her start crying again. Between her sniffs, she laughs angrily. "I'm sorry, I didn't call to cry on you. I didn't even know I still—"

"I know." Because you do. You had learned to deal with visual cues: the ballistics lab, the pieces of clothing she'd left behind in her haste, your own goddamn bed. But nothing, _nothing_ had prepared you for her voice in your ear. Too painfully intimate. Her voice made everything else – everything you tried so hard to compartmentalize – flood back.

You have so many unanswered questions, but you're terrified of scaring her away, so they stay paralyzed on your tongue. The silence beyond the heavy breathing is stifling, and you fumble for something to say, if only to hear her voice in response.

"Come home." You sound guarded, because you know all too well the possibility of her slamming down the phone and breaking you the same way she had broken you four years ago.

"Okay," she replies instantly. "I'm going to buy a plane ticket tomorrow."

"One-way." You're not sure why you're giving her conditions, because you know you do not give a damn if it is eight-way, as long as you get to hold her again.

"One-way," she repeats. You can hear her rustling papers at the other end. "Listen, I need to go," she says dejectedly. She pauses, as if wondering if she should say more. "I'll call you later?"

"Yes." You wish she could stay with you longer, but you know you have plenty to think about when you hang up. "I—I'll talk to you later, then."

"Yeah. Oh, and Eric?" You marvel at the way your name still falls from her lips best. "I wasn't messy."


	2. Chapter 2: Calleigh

**Chapter 2: Calleigh**

You listen to the rings with a quickened pulse, reasoning with yourself, mentally listing why you should hang up and pretend this hesitation never occurred. But when his voice finally comes across, you freeze.

He sounds tired, like a man worn down by the trials of time. You try to say something, but your heart catches in your throat, so you keep quiet and listen to his even breathing. You tell yourself he will probably hang up soon, at which time you would do the same and forget this ever happened.

You drive yourself insane with the anticipation of the click to end the call. When you finally realize he wasn't hanging up, you try your hand at words, but your voice comes out scratchy and weak. His breathing deepens to long, uneven strokes, and you panic, the what-ifs running through your head. What if he was pulling a late shift and was in the middle of an important interrogation? What if he was on a date?

_What if he was in bed with someone?_

You curse yourself for still seething at the thought. You remind yourself that he can sleep with whomever he damn desires, but the images have engraved themselves in your head, and the surge of jealousy doesn't dissipate.

When he says your name, the mixture of emotion in his voice overwhelms you. In one syllable, he makes your head spin, scrambling the organized compartments of your brain. The relevance of his current activities becomes clear to you; whether or not he is in bed, you have his full attention.

You still want to play it cool, but the rhythm of his breathing betrays his tears, and the realization that Eric Delko, your brave Cuban ex-best friend, ex-lover is crying becomes too much to handle, and your own sobs escape your lips. For the first time, if only momentarily, you question your decision to leave. You think calling him was a mistake. You think you can't do this right now.

You think you miss him so, so much.

Your mind screams at you, berates you for showing too much emotion already, but your heart wants something different, and in moments of this magnitude, the heart always out-bluffs the mind.

So you tell him. "I miss you." The 'so much' catches in your throat, or maybe you stop yourself, attempting a semblance of control. Either way, the words are lost, but you know that even without those words, he has caught your quiet urgency.

His reply – I need you – makes your hand fly to your mouth to cover up the half-gasp, half-sob that seeps through.

_Dontsaythatdontsaythatdontsaythat._

_Please._

Too raw. Too real. Too much. And suddenly, you're back to four years ago, his bed, your couch; his lips on your earlobe, his tongue at your neck, his fingertips doodling just below your breasts. Your moan, his breath. He is everywhere except where you want him, trailing blazes across your skin. A hundred times, a thousand ways. You close your eyes, but you smell him over you, under you, inside you, so you have to open them again. But it's too late; maybe it's always been too late.

"You, you are my messy lover."

His comment catches you off guard, and you hear your own words from that night at the pier echoing in your mind. You're not sure how you find the voice to tell him what you already know: he is there. You wonder how often he goes, but you think that maybe this is his first time since you left, and the unhappy coincidence that you've called him at his most vulnerable is just that: a coincidence.

You miss the normalcy of your conversations, but an innocent query into the state of his being brings another unexpected onslaught of tears. You rush something that's part explanation, part apology, but you have neither the words to explain nor the ones to apologize. Yet, he knows. He knows what you mean, and he knows what you feel. He knows _you_, and you sense that the two of you still share more than you had wanted yourself to believe.

When he asks you to come home, your mind goes into overdrive, but before you can process the request and weigh the consequences, you impulsively agree. Your spontaneity scares you, because you have never been one to speak or act before you think. Had he asked you to jump off a building with the same desperation, would you have complied immediately?

You get your answer when he asks you to get a one-way ticket, and you concur before you have a chance to consider the implications behind this decision.

As soon as you press 'end' on your phone, your whole body aches for his voice. You wonder why you had told him you needed to go, because while you had a backlog of reports to fill, they could wait. Eric—

You swallow, feeling the lump in your throat.

You stare blankly at the pile of reports in front of you, your tears still hot on your cheeks. Your outburst of emotion had caught you off guard; you don't even remember the last time you had cried. If you hadn't heard the falter in his voice, you would've held in your own tears, because crying meant weakness, and you, Calleigh Duquesne, was anything but weak. His quiet sobs had surprised you though, more than anything else. The only other time you remember Eric crying was at Speed's funeral. Even then, he was silent. If not for the tears that rolled from his eyes that day, you wouldn't have even known he was crying.

You hadn't planned on calling him. In fact, you had nestled your way into that tiny niche between emotionless words and hollow smiles. But somehow, your fingers had found their way to speed dial – one, still_always_ first – and had pressed the phone against your ear. When you had changed phones and had to transfer your address book, you had only kept one number from your life in Miami. Nosy colleagues who thought it was their business who was in your speed dial would ask who 'ED' was with a suggestive raise of the eyebrow. You had always smiled, told them it was an old friend and given them a glare, warning them never to touch your personal belongings again.

Life in Boston was good. Peaceful. It was surprisingly easy to adjust to. You only missed Eric when you thought of him, so you busied yourself with work. At an early age, you had learned to install a switch on emotion. Moments with Eric had begun to put the switch into disuse, but it was all too easy to tweak and stick back into commission.

After you had broken the news to him that evening, you had made your way to the Miami-Dade crime lab one last time. Horatio had still been there – did that man ever sleep? – to greet you with a sad smile, and had reassured you that he'd inform everyone of your departure. You had made him promise to go to each person individually – _not Eric_ – and he had nodded in understanding. The people you had worked with every day, especially the ones you considered good friends, had deserved more than that, but you hadn't wanted to be ensnared in messy goodbyes. Sometimes, you wonder if you had hurt them by leaving, and how much, but then you flip the switch and bury your nose in evidence, just in time to block out the wave of guilt. Those waves are little more than tiny ripples lapping at your feet nowadays, anyway. Somewhere along the way, your independence climbs to the top of your priority list, and you figure everyone you leave behind will move on.

Your reputation as the 'bullet girl' follows you to the Boston crime lab, where their day-shift ballistics expert had filed for retirement a few days before you had asked Horatio to look into having you transferred. Your new co-workers had welcomed you with open arms, helping you discover the beauties of Boston. Eventually, you hold the landmarks and small quirks of Boston close to your heart: the Harbor Islands National Park replaces the Everglades, and you get used to months of snowfall.

But you had strayed from the Harborwalk; it reminded you too much of Miami and _your_ pier.

You had dated a few men, at the insistence of your new friends, but they had all been scared away by your fascination with guns, or had suffocated you with their constant need for your time and attention. It was frustrating that they couldn't read your body language and tone, and after so many years of _him_, you get annoyed when you have to spell everything out.

After your latest breakup, you had come to accept that you would spend the rest of your life alone and end up like one of those crazy cat ladies once you retired. You would never find _the one_, because the men who weren't intimidated by your demeanor were arrogant assholes. You needed someone to give you the control you craved, without worshipping the ground you walked on, all the while gently keeping you in check when you had your off days.

The realization that your one chance may have slipped out of your grip had hit you harder than you would have imagined. You could still feel him under your fingertips.

That was when your hand had reached for the phone.

Needing to take your mind off the conversation, you make your way to your bathroom and stand in front of the mirror for a moment, staring at your reflection. You turn on the faucet and splash some water on your face, welcoming the way the cool liquid mingles with your drying tears. You use a small washcloth to wipe your face, erasing any impressions of weakness. Before leaving the bathroom, you study your reflection again. Your eyes are still bloodshot, but your cheeks are tinted a healthy pink. You shake your head. You had just been crying, after all; of course your cheeks are flushed.

But on your way back to your desk, you fight the urge to grin.

You reach for your phone again and dial a different number. The next ten minutes becomes a blur, and you are barely able to focus while your boss grills you about your sudden resignation. You're pretty sure she mentions 'professional' and 'two weeks notice,' but your preoccupied mind offers only polite, generic responses. Finally, she gives up and simply asks you for a copy of your resignation letter to be mailed or faxed to her office.

Next, you call the airport and find out that you can be on a direct flight to Miami at eight the next morning, or take a flight that leaves for Raleigh in two hours and transfer. Without giving it much thought, you opt for the transfer option; despite the fact that you will be traveling all night, it will get you to Miami by five-thirty tomorrow morning.

As soon as you hang up, you start to panic. Suddenly, you feel like you're in the middle of the ocean with weights around your ankles. You consider calling him and telling him that you had made a mistake, that you absolutely cannot, _will not_ catch a flight to Miami. How could you face him? How would you answer his questions? You can't stand the thought of not being in control of your emotions, not knowing what to say, acting on impulse rather than rationale. You can see it playing out now: you meet him at a restaurant, maybe a coffee shop, and sit down to have a heart-to-heart, maybe cry a little. And then what? If he gets the answers he needs, would he finally move on? Would you? Would you ask Horatio for your old job back? Even if you told him that you and Eric were a thing of the past, would he give it to you? What made you think you could deal with working together again anyway?

And what if he _doesn't_ move on? What if he wants a second shot? Could you? Your better judgment says no.

Your actions say yes, as you press your phone against your face again. Your heart beats a little less quickly than last time, but you're still anxious, a feeling very unfamiliar to you. After a few rings, he picks up.

"Hey," he greets, his voice calmer now. He must have recognized the number this time and had prepared himself. You wonder if he's still at the pier, but you don't ask, fearing you'll start crying again.

"Hey." You smile, much more comfortable when neither of you are in tears. "I got the ticket." Well, no ticket, but you have confirmation of your flight.

"Wow, already," he says, evidently surprised.

You squirm slightly in your seat, suddenly aware that maybe you sound too eager. "Yeah, I know it's soon," you reply defensively, your voice trailing off anxiously.

"No, no. It's great," he reassures you. "When does your flight land?"

"Five-thirty."

"Tomorrow afternoon?"

"Tomorrow morning, actually." _Way_ too eager. "You don't have to pick me up or anything. I just figured I'd look around for a place to stay."

"Stay at my place," he replies casually. You sense that he doesn't realize the implications of his offer until after the words have left his mouth. "Or actually, I could help you look around," he backtracks lamely.

But visions of his one-bedroom apartment have already sneaked their way into your mind. You pride yourself on having a photographic memory, but now it only serves to provide you images of his naked body pressed against yours, his gentle but firm fingers exploring your curves. You swallow. You wonder if it'll ever be easy. "Thanks, but I don't want to upset your daily routine," you say carefully. Everything has to be said with a dash of caution now. Every word holds another hidden meaning, the implications of each chosen phrase is held under a microscope and dissected until verbiage becomes nothing more than a slew of meaningless letters. "Give me a week or two to find somewhere to live and finish moving all my stuff over." You're stalling. You think he knows this.

He is quiet for a moment, and you wish you can see his face, because you had always been able to read him like an open book. "I just need to see you, Calleigh," he says quietly.

You bite your lip. Always straight to the point, still holding his heart out in his open palms. "Eric—"

"Can I pick you up?" He pauses, then clarifies, "From the airport."

_No. Nonono. Not ready. Not yet._

"You work tomorrow," you say pointedly.

He laughs. "I work every day."

You smile. "Good point."

"I'm just going to pick you up and drop you off at a hotel or whatever. Then I'm heading straight to work. H would probably get a hernia if I showed up any later," he says with a snicker. He stops talking then, waiting expectantly for your reply. Even 1,500 miles away, you sense his restless anticipation.

You sigh and take a deep breath. No more hiding. "Okay," you concede. There's an underlying understanding that you've okayed more than just a lift to a hotel.

"Miami International?" he asks, referring to the airport.

"Yeah." You're silently glad that there would be someone there to pick you up. The one thing you had hated most about arriving in Boston for the first time was that you had to walk out of the airport alone. It had made you feel like you had no one, and you remember the unsettling feeling of being small in a new city.

Suddenly, from the corner of your eye, you catch your wall clock. Both hands are hovering near the eleven. _Crap._

You shoot out of your seat and head for your bedroom. "I have to go. Right now." Your voice comes out a little more serious than you had intended.

"What, like to the bathroom?" he teases. "Go ahead. I'll stand here and whistle 'til you're done." You can almost see his goofy grin.

You laugh in spite of yourself. You are relieved that time hasn't affected his sense of humor. "Eric, I'm going to miss my flight."

"I know, you'd better go," he says softly. He sounds like it's the last time he'll ever get to talk to you. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."

_Too soon._

"Get some sleep," you urge, even though you know sleep is the last thing on either of your minds. You don't want to hang up, because you know that as soon as you do, reality will rear its ugly head and you'll have to _think_ about where you're headed.

"I'll try," he says, more for your sake than anything else. "Thanks, Calleigh."

You're not sure why he thanks you, and you think that maybe he doesn't know why either.

"Later, Eric."

You find a dusty old duffel bag from the back of your closet and pack a change of clothes and a few daily necessities into it. All of your appliances and most of your furniture belong to your landlady; you make a mental note to call her later. You decide that you'll get someone to ship your stuff later. Besides, you need to leave something resembling a life here, in case returning to Miami turns out to be the biggest mistake you ever make. You move around the apartment quickly, unplugging everything in sight. You call for a cab and grab your bag, still unable to believe that you had made such an instinctive choice. Standing at the door, you glance at the place you'd called home for the past four years one last time, before flipping off the final light switch and locking the door behind you. You bid your Boston life goodbye and head for the stairs, your fingers crossed under the handle of your duffel.


	3. Chapter 3: Eric

**Chapter 3: Eric**

The digital display of your alarm clock glowers angrily at you. The numbers have not changed since the last time you checked; still 2:43 a.m., an ungodly hour. You toss uncomfortably in your sweaty sheets, a billion thoughts running through your head at once. You close your eyes, but sleep doesn't come. Instead, snapshots of your late-night-early-mornings with Calleigh flash into your mind.

_You nuzzle your face into the crook of her neck, your lips resting on her carotid artery, feeling her pulse reverberate against them. Your hand cups her cheek, your thumb running across her lips._

_"Why aren't you sleeping?" she murmurs against your fingertips._

_You place a gentle kiss on her shoulder. "Why aren't you?"_

_She smiles and covers your hand with her own. "I asked you first," she says childishly, frowning slightly to make her point. "So, why aren't you sleeping?"_

_"Because," you say, dragging out the word as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, "I'm busy." You move your hand to her thigh, pulling her closer._

_She turns to face you and rests her head against your chest. Her legs find their way between yours. "With what?" she asks, playing along._

_You place a kiss on the top of her head. In a completely serious tone, you reply, "Well, there's this really hot chick, you see, and I don't know how to tell her I want to get into her pants without sounding like a pig." You pause, feeling her smile against your chest. "What should I do?"_

_She lifts her head to look at you. "Eric!"_

_"What?" you ask innocently, pulling her in again._

_She presses her palms against your chest to protest, so you loosen your grip. She glares at you, but you can tell she's not really angry. "That's not the right way to get me to sleep with you!"_

_"Who said I was talking about you?" you deadpan, earning a shove to the chest._

_"Fine, who are you talking about?" she asks curtly, jealousy dripping from her words._

_She protests slightly when you move her to her back and cover her body with yours, but moans and responds eagerly when you kiss her. "Let me show you," you whisper, your breath already short and low._

You open your eyes, your gaze falling on your alarm clock again. 2:51. Three hours. Three hours, thirty-nine minutes before Calleigh's plane lands in Miami.

After her first call, you had stayed at the pier, not trusting your legs to be able to hold you up. You were convinced you had looked like you had just seen a ghost, so you had taken the time to calm yourself. You were still there when she called the second time. Somehow, you had managed to make it home in one piece; you were glad traffic had been light.

You sit up and walk to the dresser, rummaging through the drawers for a clean change of clothes. Your hand brushes against a black silk teddy Calleigh used to wear to bed. You had always known it was there, but talking to her had made all the nights associated with that particular piece of clothing clearer than you can handle.

Shrugging it off, you head to the shower and immerse yourself in the scalding water, allowing a brief moment of simplicity before the unavoidable complications.

An hour and a half later, you're sitting on an uncomfortable bench near the national flights exit at Miami International. You're early, nearly two hours early, so you ignore the constant crowd of people waiting for a relative, friend or business partner, holding up ugly signs with names scribbled in messy handwriting. You wonder what you would write on yours, if you had brought one. '_Calleigh Duquesne, this sign is useless because I could find you anywhere._' Your endless corniness makes you want to shoot yourself.

"Who are you here for?"

You turn to the voice, and you are surprised to find a middle-aged man seated next to you. He is leaning back against the bench, his composure calm and friendly. You think you can use this to take your mind off the impending meeting, so you smile politely and reply, "Someone I knew a long time ago."

He nods understandingly. "Let me guess, a girl."

You laugh, your throat still scratchy, and run your hand over your face. "What gave it away?"

He laughs knowingly and shrugs. "Just a guess." He studies you for a minute. You do not appreciate the scrutiny, but you are in no mood to start a fight, so you let him stare. "You look tired."

"Thanks," you say, a little more sarcastically than you had meant to. You resent him for mentioning it, but you know he's right.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you fish it out. Calleigh. You turn to the stranger, who gives you a nod. You take a breath and answer, but before you can say anything, she's talking.

"I can't do this. I'm sorry. I—I know this is unfair." Her voice is rushed but sharp, her accent stronger than you ever remember it being.

You lean forward on the bench. "What are you talking about?" you hiss, your heart racing. But you know.

"Don't go to the airport," she says, sounding more like she was issuing a warning than an order, her voice eerily panicked.

"I'm already there," you say flatly. "I couldn't sleep." As if stating it makes it more real, you suddenly feel the effects of your sleep deprivation. Your muscles are sore, and you have a splitting headache.

You hear her pacing at the other end. "I'm not on the flight." Of course. Of course she isn't on the plane; she can't use her phone on the plane.

Your heart drops. You cannot believe this is happening. "Where the hell are you, then? And why are you only calling now? Your flight must've left hours ago." Your voice becomes increasingly loud, and you feel a handful of unwanted eyes on you.

"No, I wasn't on a direct flight. I—" She pauses. "I'm in Raleigh," she says with a short, disbelieving laugh.

"Raleigh, North Carolina?!" You are glad nobody you know is around; your voice has turned almost squeaky.

"Yeah," she says quietly. She sighs nervously. "I was supposed to get on a flight from here to Miami, but I chickened out," she admits guiltily. "I just—" She takes a deep, shaky breath. "I don't know, Eric. Maybe this isn't such a great idea."

In another time, another place, you would've mercilessly teased her about admitting to 'chickening out,' but now is neither the time, nor the place. Your brain can only process the most simple of questions. "Why?" Simple to ask; impossibly complex to answer.

She breathes deeply. "I need more time." Her response is hollow, the words empty and lacking meaning. A skeleton, no flesh.

An unexpected fury flares up within you. "Don't you dare say that," you admonish angrily. "You were the one who called me." When she doesn't say anything, you continue, still seething. "_You_ left _me_, not the other way around." You say this as if she needs the reminder.

She scoffs. "I suppose that means I should feel _lucky_ that you're giving me a second chance?"

"I'm _not_ giving you a second chance." It isn't until long after the words have left your mouth that you actually realize what you have said. You want to tell her you don't mean that, but your pride has other ideas. "I was moving on, Cal." _Liar, liar, pants on fire._ "Your phone call is the _only_ reason I am sitting here right now, waiting for you to get off a flight that you're not even on." Your head is ringing, your headache and your fatigue dictating your actions.

She is silent for a few moments. You only know that she has not hung up by her unsteady breathing. "I see." She laughs bitterly, her voice stone cold. "I guess it's best that I'm in Raleigh, then."

Only one thing makes its way to the forefront of your mind. You speak before you have a chance to censor your words. "Wait, does that mean you had wanted a second chance?" Open mouth; insert foot.

She breathes in disbelief. "I cannot _believe_ you just asked me that two seconds after you told me I wasn't getting one. Go to hell, Eric."

The click and the silence that ensues becomes one of the most disconcerting sounds you ever remember hearing.

You slip your phone back into your pocket, trying desperately to steady yourself. You try to stand, but your legs won't let you, so you stay seated. You try to regulate your breathing, and this works a bit better than your attempt to stand.

"Her name's Cal?" The stranger is still there, still talking. You are annoyed that he had been eavesdropping, but you imagine you had been talking loud enough for the other side of the airport to hear.

You are in no mood to talk, but you feel the need to correct him, because only you can call her by a shortened name. "Calleigh. I call her Cal sometimes." But you know you won't be calling her anything anytime soon. The realization makes you nauseous.

"That's a nice name." You ignore him, but after a brief pause, he continues, "There's a flight – American Airlines – that leaves for Raleigh in half an hour. You can get there in two."

You stare at him incredulously. He laughs. "I work here," he says, motioning towards the other side of the airport. "At luggage check. Before my break, a few passengers heading for Raleigh had already checked in their stuff. Usually there are a couple of unoccupied seats."

Somehow, you find a strange comfort and trust in this nosy stranger. "Do you really think I should—" Should what? Chase her? What if she is already gone by the time you get there? Should you continue the chase back to Boston? It worked in stupid romantic flicks, but you doubt the validity of such an act in real life, especially when chasing Calleigh. She would probably catch on to your plan and snipe you from afar.

He shrugs. "Follow your gut." He stands and clears his throat. "I'd better get back to work." He pats you amicably on the shoulder. "It was nice talking to you, and good luck."

"Thanks," you say, even though you know you had been less than kind and hadn't been much to talk to.

You watch the nameless stranger leave and realize that you probably should get going too. You feel numb. The events of the past few minutes have not yet fully hit you, but you are sure that once you get home, you'll break. You're still nauseous; you feel the dangerous mix of exhaustion and a weary heart weighing down your body. You're not sure you remember how to pick up the pieces of a fractured life, but you pray it gets easier the second time.

Hope is such a risky sentiment. You had never been much of a gambler, but you were always ready to bet your emotions for Calleigh. You had lost the first time, and you are on the verge of bankruptcy.

You had let her leave the first time around. You had known that she was headstrong and independent, and you had accepted that you didn't have a say in the events of her life, so you had let her go, instead of doing everything in your power to stop her. You weren't one to disregard her decisions, and you were never fully convinced that you had meant as much to her as she had meant to you. Calleigh always hated talking about feelings, and you had respected her too much to push it, so you had lived in the understanding that you'd never know just how much you meant to her. 'I love you' was only ever whispered when one of you needed a little extra encouragement to reach sexual climax – almost never. You had always looked for small signs that proved she really did love you as much as you loved her, and you had been able to pick out little moments that you held close to your heart. When she decided to leave, however, you took it as a _huge_ sign that you had misread all her other signs. After all, you could never imagine leaving her, so if she not only did it, but did it almost too easily, it must have been an indication that you just weren't very important to her. She wouldn't have left if she was happy, and her happiness had meant the world to you, so you had let her do whatever she wanted, because you trusted her judgment.

After the tearful call last night at the pier, you had felt a tinge of regret. You think that maybe your decision not to chase her had been a mistake. Calleigh had always let you see more of her than she had let anyone else, but she had never let you explore her deepest emotional crevices, so when she broke down and had let you hear her cry, you had wanted desperately to be able to turn back time and get a second shot at that night. You had replayed the situation a thousand times in your head, perfecting the ultimate outcome. You think that maybe, she had unconsciously tested you, and you had failed.

Now, a second shot has been handed to you, but under such different circumstances. You have another decision to make, but while the two questions are nearly identical – to chase or not to chase – the conditions are so contrasting that your careful calculations are no longer adequate. Your decision has to be made in the heat of the moment, but you don't know how to do that without Calleigh's rational voice guiding you. You sense, however, that her rational voice is being drowned by her instincts, only occasionally resurfacing for a gasp of air.

Sighing, you wonder if the two of you will ever figure it out. You wonder if it's even worth it to invest the time and energy to set everything straight. Too emotionally draining. Too many gut-wrenching turns on this roller coaster.

You find yourself standing in front of your car at the airport parking lot, unsure how exactly you found your way there. You take it as an indication that your body is unwilling to gamble again. After you pay your parking bill and pull out of the parking lot, as if in a trance, you drive yourself to the long-term parking facility. You snort when you notice the name of the lot: Dolphin Garage. Miami never fails to amuse you. You pay for a week's worth of airport parking and park your car on the third floor, as close to the terminal building as possible. You're not even sure how much money you spend, only that it probably cost you an arm and a leg.

You walk into the terminal building, slightly conscious of the fact that you are empty-handed. You approach the nearest American Airlines counter lean against it. Your height and stature impose an air of authority. The young man sitting on the other side is a little taken aback by your stance. "How can I help you?" he asks timidly.

"Flight to Raleigh that leaves in—" You check your watch. "—eleven minutes. Is it this airline?"

"Yes, would you like me to check for available seats?" Before you can answer, he's already tapping away at the keyboard in front of him. "There are two places left, both first class, but you'll have to hurry. If you have bags to check, you might not make it on time."

You show him your empty hands.

"Okay, I'll need one piece of photo identification, please," he requests, sitting up a little straighter. He seems to be used to urgent passengers trying to get onto last-minute flights. You wonder how many of them had been chasing their ex-lovers across state lines in the naive belief that something would happen. You wonder how many of them had their hearts broken a second time.

You find your driver's license and your credit card in your wallet and hand them to him. You tap your fingers impatiently against the counter while he enters your information onto the computer. He hands you a freshly-printed boarding pass. "Gate E25. Up the escalator to your right," he says, pointing vaguely into the airport. "You'd better run. Good luck."

As you set off, you wonder why everyone is wishing you luck today. You'll take it, though. You figure you can use as much luck as you can possibly get.

Your badge and lack of carry-on help you rush through security. You make it to the gate just before the last person boards. The woman at the gate scans your boarding pass and smiles flirtatiously at you. You don't notice.

On the plane, you are seated next to a teenager who growls angrily when a flight attendant asks him to remove his headphones for takeoff. Better than a chatty old lady, you decide, clipping on your seatbelt and resting your head back. You have a window seat, so you stare outside as the plane pulls away from the terminal.

Only then do your actions start to register. Your stomach is flipping around in your abdominal cavity, and you are suddenly aware how hungry you are. Your eyelids threaten to close, but you hold your eyes open.

When the monotonous pre-flight message starts, however, your fatigue takes over, and you fall asleep before the seatbelt light even dims.

You wake up to a discomfort in your ears. The plane is landing in Raleigh, and the change in pressure causes the inside of your ears to tighten. As soon as the plane is safely attached to the terminal, you're out of your seat. You nearly knock down a little old lady. You hear yourself apologizing, but people are still glaring. You are the fourth person off the plane. It helps that you do not have to remove anything from the overhead compartment. You try to act collected, but your heart is leaping out of your chest. You approach the nearest counter and spot a young woman who looks a little nervous and out-of-place. You think it is probably her first week on the job. Hoping that this works in your favor, you advance toward her.

"Miami-Dade PD," you say, flashing your badge. "I need to get information on flight patterns and plans for a woman by the name of Calleigh Duquesne."

The young woman stands her ground, handing you a practiced phrase. "I'm going to need to see a warrant, sir."

You sigh impatiently. "Look, I can get you a warrant, but by the time I do, she could be across the country. She's not immediately dangerous, but I can't assure you that there's a possibility she will be when she gets to her destination, which is why I need to know where she's been and where she's going." She doesn't look convinced, so you try intimidation. You lean closer and lower your voice. "I'm sure you don't want this to fall on you when she goes through with her plans and it's all over the evening news." You feel bad for lying, but you are desperate.

Her eyes open wide in shock. She looks around nervously. "Are you sure you're a cop?" she whispers. You know then that you've got her.

You nod. "Yeah, I'm a cop. Do you want to see my badge again?" you ask with a hint of menace.

"No, that's fine," she says, fidgeting in her seat. "Who—" She turns to the computer in front of her and places her fingers on the keyboard. "What was the name again, sir?"

"Duquesne," you repeat. "D-U-Q-U-E-S-N-E."

She taps a few keys on the keyboard. "Alright, sir, here you are. Calleigh Duquesne. Her recent flight info tells me that she got on a flight from Boston to Raleigh at midnight last night, which landed on time a little before two this morning," she begins, picking up a pen and pointing at the screen with it. "She was supposed to be on a flight from Raleigh to Miami, which left a few minutes past four and is scheduled to land in ten minutes, but it says here she didn't make it." She narrows her eyes suspiciously. "This woman hasn't traveled by air very much at all. How is she involved in your investigation?"

You sigh, annoyed at all the cop shows on TV that somehow convince the majority of the population that they're all police officers. You raise your voice. "Do you see me telling you which buttons to press on your computer? No, so why don't you do your job and leave the detective work to me. Now, where's she headed?" You don't mean to be so harsh, but you do not want to miss Calleigh by a few minutes just because some ditzy girl takes too long to look up her flight info.

The young woman frowns. "She's… not. Nowhere. She's not headed anywhere."

"What are you talking about?" you snap, craning your neck to see her computer screen.

"She hasn't purchased any tickets, sir. She must still be in Raleigh." The girl bites her lip and swallows anxiously. "Do I need to alert airport security?"

You shake your head. "No, I'll handle it. Thank you."

She nods and watches you rush off. You make your way quickly through the masses of people, your head spinning. You wonder where the hell she could be. You find your phone and flip it open, dialing a memorized number. The rings seem to drag on forever. _C'mon, c'mon_.

"Cooper."

"It's Delko," you say, because you know Dan Cooper does not have caller ID.

"Delko! What's up, buddy?" Since Cooper moved to late night-shift, you saw less of each other. But now you appreciate that you know someone who works audio-visual at six in the morning.

You pray he's in a good mood. "I need a favor, man."

"You still owe me for that time you passed out in a bar and I had to drive your drunk ass home." Leave it to Cooper to mention something like that.

"What? When?" you ask, genuinely confused.

You hear him shrug. "I don't know, a while ago. You nearly gave me a black eye."

You laugh in disbelief. "You're making this up."

"No, dude, I'm totally serious. I might even have pictures of that night somewhere." You can hear him searching around his lab.

You're not sure whether to laugh or cry. Your exhaustion lets you do neither. "Look, man, I'm roaming. This call isn't cheap. Are you going to help me or not?" You don't actually care about the cost of your next phone bill, only about the time you're wasting.

"You're out of state? Don't you have work in like two hours?" You can almost see the expression of surprise on his face.

"Coop, _are you going to help me out or not_?" you ask again, letting the words grind through your teeth.

He is a little taken aback by your tone. "What do you need?"

"I need you to run a number for me," you say hopefully. "I need the location."

"For work?"

"No," you reply. He is silent, and it sounds like he is weighing the consequences of doing this for you. "Don't tell me you're suddenly a stickler for the rules."

"Hey, I need this job, alright?" he says defensively.

You sigh in irritation. "Nobody'll ever know, Cooper. Come on."

"Okay, okay. Give me the number," he concedes.

You recite Calleigh's number, which you know by heart despite the fact that you have never dialed it.

You hear him tapping keys at the other end. "This is a Boston area code. Are you in Boston?"

"No," you say, annoyed, "can you just run it?"

"Okay, here we go. Morrisville, North Carolina. You're near Raleigh?"

You ignore his question. "Can you be more specific about the location?"

He suddenly sounds a little distracted. "Uh, sure. Holiday Inn Express, right next to Raleigh-Durham International." He pauses. "You're looking for Calleigh." A statement, not a question.

"Why the hell are you checking out who the number's registered to?" you demand, your voice rising.

"It pops up on the goddamn screen when I enter the number, Delko," he defends. "I'm helping you. How about you don't yell at me?"

You lower your voice. "I'm not yelling."

"I'm just saying, you don't want to be burned twice." He's right, of course, but you don't want to think about it.

"Thanks for your concern, but I know what I'm doing." You don't.

"Alright," he says, unconvinced. "Hey, I see Horatio coming in. You want me to let him know you won't be at work today?"

You hadn't even thought about that until now. "Yeah, yeah, that's a good idea. Thanks, man, I owe you one. A huge one."

"Yes, sir, you do." He pauses. "Hey, Eric?"

"Yeah?"

He takes a moment to answer, but when he does, his voice is sincere. "Good luck with her, and be careful."

You smile, genuinely grateful. "Thanks, Cooper, I really appreciate that."

When you hang up, you're already outside Raleigh-Durham International Airport. Cabs are consistently picking up and dropping off people, so you find an unoccupied one and climb into the passenger's seat.

"Holiday Inn Express, please."

"It's only half a mile away, " the driver supplies in heavily accented English. "There's even a shuttle bus."

You don't think you have the patience to find the place yourself, so you smile politely and reply, "Thanks, but I really need to get there fast."

The taxi driver nods and pulls away from the airport. The ride to the hotel is too short, or maybe it's too long. You pay the driver with a twenty-dollar bill and stuff the change haphazardly into your pockets.

The doorman holds the door open for you and tips his hat as you enter, but you are too distracted to thank him. You head for reception. The man at the other side of the counter smiles up at you when you approach.

"Hi, I'm looking for Calleigh Duquesne. D-U-Q-U-E-S-N-E." You wish Calleigh's name wasn't so complicated, but only for a moment, because you realize that those small oddities were what attracted you to her in the first place.

He doesn't even check the records on his computer. "She just checked in. Room 420," he says, smiling again.

You thank him and walk to the elevator. Nobody else is there, so when it arrives, you stand inside by yourself, listening to your heartbeat racing in the empty air. When the elevator reaches the fourth floor, your heart feels like it's somewhere in your stomach. You have to fight your body's reflex to throw up, and suddenly you wish you had eaten something before you got here, but you don't think you'll have the guts to make it back upstairs if you don't do this now, so you drag yourself to room 420. You stand in front of the door for a long time, building up the courage to knock. Anxiety and anticipation.

_Suck it up, Delko._

You knock. You consider the possibility that she is not in her room, and your heart beats frantically at the thought that you would have to wait even longer to see her.

Your heart pounds even harder when you hear shuffling on the other side. The door starts to creak open. You hold your breath.


	4. Chapter 4: Calleigh

**Chapter 4: Calleigh**

The Boston Logan Airport is bustling with activity when you arrive. You had packed light, and your duffel fits under the weight and size restrictions for a carry-on, so you bring it with you. You pick up your boarding pass and make your way through security. You find your gate; thankfully, you don't have to wait very long to board. You try to sleep on the flight, but your brain is trying to reorganize the parts scrambled by the events of the past few hours.

The woman sitting next to you tries to start a conversation with you, but you're less than courteous. She goes on anyway, showing you pictures of her children and talking openly – a little _too_ openly, in your opinion – about her ruined marriage. "The trick to a successful relationship," she says, "is to lay everything out on the line. My biggest mistake was not communicating how I felt. I loved my husband, of course. I still do, but I never told him that. By the time I came around, he was already finding that comfort in another woman's arms. I was too late." She smiles sadly. "Biggest regret. So I adopted a mantra for myself: now or never."

You think that her husband is a complete ass for cheating on her, but it's not your place, so you hold your tongue.

When your plane lands in Raleigh, that is the only part of your flight that you remember. _Now or never._

There's a two-hour wait for your next flight, so you wander around the airport for a while. You stop at the duty-free shop and purchase a bar of chocolate for yourself. You stand in front of the jewelry counter for a long time, looking at rings. You consider buying one for Eric, but you're fully aware of the implications of _that_, so you admire them from a distance. A salesperson tries to help you shop for a watch by asking you if you are looking for anything specific. "Waterproof," you hear yourself saying. "It has to be waterproof. He's a swimmer."

You walk out of the shop with a Timex Ironman Triathlon Bodylink, a modest watch that you think will suit his active lifestyle. You find your gate and sit down to wait for departure. You try to stay awake, but the adrenaline has worn off, and you drift in and out of consciousness.

_Blood. Everywhere._

_You try to breathe but you can't; you try to scream but your throat is caked with dried and drying blood. Tim, John, Jake. Accident, suicide, coma. There's blood on Ryan's shirt. Is he next? Keep your distance._

_Eric is too close. Stay away. He moves closer. Moves closer, closer, closer._

_Closer than the trio combined._

_For a month and a half after John Hagen's death, you see blood._

_Everywhere._

_Now you remember why your transfer request was signed and dated, your signature blurred by a solitary tear._

You feel a hand on your shoulder. You open your eyes to see an airport employee standing in front of you, gently shaking you awake. "Miss, are you waiting for flight 348 to Miami?"

_Speedle's gun, misfire._ "No."

She gives you a strange look. "You're not Calleigh Duquesne?" She pronounces it _kay-lay doo-kwes-nee_.

_Hagen's gun, headshot._ "No."

She looks like she wants to ask you why you are sitting there, but she decides against it and leaves. A few seconds later, the PA system springs to life. "Calleigh Duquesne, flight 348 to Miami is leaving in five minutes. Please make your way to gate 45." Your name is pronounced wrong again. You stare blankly at the door to your flight until it closes.

_Berkeley's gun, unloaded, sitting next to him in his hospital room, next to his badge and a bouquet of dying flowers._

_No._

You take out the watch that you had bought Eric. It is now encased in a velvet box, which you stroke gently. Maybe you'll mail it to him later, you think to yourself. It's a bad idea, but you've had plenty of those recently.

You stand up and start pacing the gate, your duffel bag slung over your shoulder. Passengers for the next flight are already arriving. You bring your phone to your ear. You don't even pay much attention to the conversation. You only know that he is angry; very, very angry. You think he hates you. You don't blame him. Maybe his irate voice in your ear will make it easier to return to Boston and forget about everything. You hope that the only remnants of the past twelve hours is a lighter wallet, but you doubt it'll be that easy.

Even though you are displaying all the physical signs of agitation, you feel a measure of calmness flowing through your body. Your inner tranquility scares you beyond words.

You wander around the airport for another hour and a half, sitting at various terminals, watching normal people with normal lives doing normal things. A tiny toddler stumbles at your feet and grabs you for support; the mother smiles apologetically. A paper airplane hits you on the back of the head; a group of rowdy ten-year-olds giggles ruthlessly. A man asks you for the time; you resist the urge to tell him it's written in big block numbers on a screen on the wall. The PA system periodically calls out a flight number, a destination and a missing passenger. You wonder how many of them are avoiding ex-lovers with the crazy notion that they'll inevitably end up hurting everyone they love. The velvet case is still being toyed with between your fingers. You stuff it back into your bag, pushing it as far in as it will go.

You consider buying a ticket back to Boston, but you've already quit your job, and you think you need a vacation. You've never been to Raleigh before, and you don't mind playing tourist for a little while, so you make your way out of the airport. After poking around for a while, you ride a shuttle to a nearby Holiday Inn Express. The doorman is busy answering another tourist's questions, so you open the door yourself. You wait in line at reception. When you get your turn, the man on the other side ogles you and smiles creepily. His hand rests on yours a few moments longer than appropriate when he hands you your card keys. You want to show him the barrel of your gun, but you spot a surveillance camera in the corner of the lobby.

An attractive man holds the elevator door for you and compliments your hair. You thank him and tell him that his shirt brings out his eyes. He asks you how long you're staying, and with whom, and you reply that you have no timeline, and that you're alone. _Wink._

You don't feel like yourself, but you need _something_ to take your mind off Eric. Flirting works. He gets off on the third floor, but not before asking you for your room number. You shake your head. "I'll find you if I'm interested." Open for interpretation, not open for discussion.

Your room is small but comfortable. You turn on the lights and check out your bathroom. Before you can even settle in, there's a knock at the door. Dropping your duffel, you pull the door open slowly, without even looking through the peephole.

Your heart stops. Your jaw hits the floor. You can feel your pupils dilating. Your head starts spinning.

At first, you think your eyes are playing tricks on you. You think that maybe your severe sleep depression has finally shown its signs, and that's why Eric Delko is standing in front of you, his hair disheveled, his face tired, his mouth slightly open. You blink, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand, wiping his face from your memory. He is still standing there. Suddenly, your whole body is weak, and you can barely hold yourself up. You grasp for the doorframe clumsily. You want to slam the door in his face, but your arms are suddenly jelly, and rationally, you know that won't solve anything. Your heart feels like it's about to burst in your chest cavity. Your lungs are compressed and it becomes ever more difficult to breathe.

He clears his throat. "Can I come in?" he asks, his voice guttural.

You try to say something, but your heart is still lodged in your throat, so you shake your head violently. _No._

He sighs and forces a laugh. "Calleigh—"

You want to tell him not to say your name, because you can't bear to hear it fall from his lips, but you can't find your voice, so you try to tell him with your eyes.

He stares back at you with an intensity that burns straight through to your core, and you have to look away. He leans toward you, and you reflexively back away. "Please," he murmurs softly. He pauses, running his left hand down his face. His right is clutching the doorframe. His voice lowers even more, his tone apologetic. "I didn't mean what I said before."

You feel tears stinging the back of your eyes. You will them not to fall. "How—" How did he find you? How can he put his life on hold for you like this? And why?

"Can I come in?" he presses.

The hallway light casts his long shadow against your body, and you writhe uncomfortably under the darkness of his form.

_Too close._

Still unable to form a coherent sentence, you nod and open the door a few inches more. He slips through the door and closes it behind him. The room is all of a sudden way too small, and you are painfully aware of his presence and proximity. You try to ignore the small flutters in your chest every time you look at him. He is exactly how you had remembered him: his dark skin smooth, his brown eyes piercing, his lips plump. His hands are in his pockets, and he is looking around the room nervously. The silence becomes suffocating. You move to the window and keep your gaze locked outside, leaning against the bottom of the window frame for support. You try to say something, but your throat is parched.

"I like your haircut," he offers in an attempt to break the uncomfortable silence.

You run your fingers self-consciously through your blonde hair, now shoulder-length. "I think I'm going to grow it back."

"No, keep it, it looks nice," he says sincerely.

You turn to look at him. He's still standing at the same place. "You don't have a say," you say, smiling fondly. You despise how easy it is to fall back into a casual conversation with him, because it makes everything else so much more difficult.

He chuckles. "I see nothing's changed," he notes.

You sigh, because his comment has jolted you back to reality. It'll never be easy for the two of you. "What are you doing here, Eric?" you ask, the words barely leaving your throat.

He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. "I don't know. To talk?" He looks at you expectantly and sighs. "I don't know." He closes his eyes and presses his palms against his eyelids.

"You look tired," you say, even though you're sure he knows this.

"I'm okay," he says dismissively. "I slept on the plane." He leans back against the door, his eyes still closed. His stomach grumbles.

"Did you bring a change of clothes?" you ask, even though his empty hands provide your answer.

"No, I didn't have time to pack," he says with a humorless laugh. He pauses and opens his eyes. "I thought I'd have to chase you back to Boston," he admits softly.

You wonder if he would've. "I don't think there are any direct flights back to Boston today, and I didn't think getting on another transfer flight was a good idea," you say, a little sarcastically. You want to apologize for not getting on that plane, but you feel it's not the right time. You don't want to explain. You don't want to cry.

He doesn't catch your nervousness, or maybe he ignores it out of respect. "You didn't buy the ticket, though," he says offhandedly.

You eye him suspiciously. "How do you know that?"

He laughs guiltily. "I abused my badge," he admits with a playful grin. "Are you going to tell Horatio?"

You smile and shake your head, but mention of Horatio has you thinking about your own job, and you frown. "I quit." He gives you a strange look, so you clarify, "My job, I mean. I quit my job."

"What?"

"Yeah, I don't know," you say quietly. "I thought my move to Miami was going to be permanent." You feel an unfamiliar sting in your chest. "I acted irresponsibly. I don't know what I was thinking." But you do know what you had been thinking. You were ready to move across the country to be with him again.

"I'll call him and explain everything." You know his tone. He's feeling guilty. You damn him for feeling guilty, for feeling like he needs to do this for you, for _feeling_.

"Her," you correct. "And there's no need. I need a break from everything, anyway."

He watches you sit down in a chair. You want to tell him to sit too, but there's only one chair, and you do not want him anywhere near the bed. "Will you still consider returning to Miami?" he asks carefully. His eyes are gently coaxing.

You sigh. "I don't know, Eric. I don't know." You study him for a moment. "You should get some sleep," you urge.

His laugh betrays his frustration. He closes his eyes again, stifling a yawn. "I didn't chase you here to sleep, Cal."

You smile sympathetically. "We can talk later. Get some rest."

You see him eyeing the only bed in the room. His hand reaches for the doorknob. You can tell he's thinking the same thing you are. "I—" He takes a breath, and you wonder if he's imagining you naked. "I'll go get myself a room."

"Wait." You stand.

He stops in his tracks. His eyes meet yours. He waits.

_Say 'never mind,' tell him to leave, push him out the door._

_Now or never._

"You can sleep here."

He swallows. You can see the gears turning in his head. "I—" He swallows again. "I don't think that's a very good idea."

"It's not," you say slowly, nodding, "but you just blew your last two paychecks to get here. I don't want you to waste any more money because I—" You wave your hand dismissively. "You know," you finish quietly.

His mouth opens to protest, but he can't think of anything to say, so he stares at you, pleading with you with his eyes, begging you not to do this, not now, _not yet_.

"Stay here," you request quietly.

He nods slowly. "What about you? You were up all night too."

You are tired, but you aren't about to touch _that_ with a ten-foot pole. "I'll be okay."

He doesn't look convinced, but appears too tired to argue, so he awkwardly makes his way to the bed and sits at the edge. He looks at you a little helplessly. You sense that he is trying to figure out how to get undressed without being reminded of the last time he undressed in your presence. It's already too late for you. You remember the night you left him all too clearly. You remember how he had smelled of aftershave with a hint of citrus. You remember the way he had dictated a slow pace, despite your attempts to rush. You remember the tenderness with which he had caressed you.

_Guilty, guilty, guilty._

You can barely breathe. You feel like you need to get out of this room _now_, so you head for the door, staying as close to the walls as possible. "Are you hungry?" you ask, your voice low in your throat. You twist the doorknob and pull the door open. You don't wait for his response. "I'm going to go get you something to eat." You slip out the door before he has a chance to say anything.

You walk to the vending machine near the elevators, your legs barely holding you up. You stand in front of it for a few minutes longer than you have to, holding on to the side of the vending machine to steady yourself. You wait for your heartbeat to slow down, but it pounds; you feel it in your temples.

You pick out a sandwich and a can of ginger ale, but your shaky hand slips to the wrong button, so you end up with a Sprite. You take your time walking back to your room and wait outside the door, staring at the numbers '420' emblazed under the peephole. You wonder how long he had stood there just minutes before, steadying his breath the same way you are steadying yours. You take out the card key from your pocket and slide it through the slot.

You are thankful that he is already snuggled into the sheets when you enter, his eyes closed. You place the sandwich and drink on the night table beside him and watch him sleep, his body rising and falling slightly as he breathes. You notice his pants and shirt, folded neatly in a small pile at the foot of the bed. You can't help but envision him half-naked under the sheets.

"Are you going to leave while I'm sleeping?" he asks, his voice muggy. His eyes are still closed.

You want to stroke his cheek, but you don't think that's appropriate. "No," you reassure softly.

He opens his eyes and looks at you urgently. "Promise me, Calleigh," he pleads, his eyes saying everything his words have not.

You feel your heart breaking, and you have to bite your lip to stop yourself from crying. "I promise."

His eyes are drifting, his attempts to keep them open futile. "Don't run," he whispers, closing his eyes, forfeiting himself to sleep.

You bite down harder on your lip. He is already asleep when you speak again. "I'm not going anywhere."

You know that he will be up in a few hours and that you will have to sit down with him and talk about _everything_. You know there'll be explanations and apologies to make up for the ones you were never able to offer before. You're not sure how you'll find the words to expose everything that's going on in your head, but he's found the actions to show you how much he needs you. It's your turn to use every type of communication possible to convey your feelings to him. You can't guarantee a happy ending, but you'll stop running. You'll stop hiding. You've never been good at showing emotion, but if there's anyone who can break down the barriers, it's the man lying in front of you.

You watch him sleep, admiring how gorgeous he looks when he's resting. His hand is clenching the sheets tightly, his mouth slightly parted. There's a small piece of fluff near his nose; it quivers slightly whenever he breathes. A sense of calmness washes over you again, but this time, it's not a product of denial. Here, in a tiny hotel room 750 miles away from either of your homes, you've never felt closer to home.

_Now or never._


	5. Chapter 5: Eric

**Chapter 5: Eric**

Your eyes flutter open. You sit up clumsily in the unfamiliar bed, surveying your surroundings. For a brief moment, you have no idea where you are. Then, it floods back to you, every emotion you have felt in the past twelve hours. Shock, anxiety, frustration, anticipation.

But most of all, fear. Fear that you had lost her. Again.

Calleigh is awkwardly half-sitting, half-lying in the chair on the other side of the room, her eyes closed, a small afghan draped over her body. Her head is resting on the table, her arm hanging limply off the side.

You climb out of bed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. You check the clock; it's a little after nine, still morning. A sandwich and drink are sitting next to the digital clock. You vaguely remember Calleigh saying she'd get you something to eat. You pick up your shirt and slide it over your head, making a mental note to go shopping. You approach Calleigh, and immediately, your heart beats a little faster. Distance and time never change some things. You reach out to shake her, but you're not sure you can handle the feel of her warmth underneath your fingertips, so you withdraw your arm.

"Wake up," you whisper. "Hey, Calleigh, wake up."

She mumbles incoherently and turns away from you, pulling the afghan over her head, the same way she used to before. You try again.

"Hey, come on, Cal. You're going to be sore all day if you stay in that position any longer." You reach for her shoulder again, but pull back once more.

She doesn't respond. You don't remember her being a heavy sleeper; she would wake when you so much as stirred next to her. You consider carrying her to the bed, but you're positive you'll handle _that_ a lot less well than shaking her awake.

Thankfully, she rouses and sits up, opening her eyes to look at you. You think you hear her breath hitch when she sees you, but you don't want to be presumptuous. Seeing her half-asleep is too intimate for your liking, so you back away slightly.

"I, uh, I'm going to take a shower," you say, motioning toward the bathroom.

She nods, blinking the sleep from her eyes.

"Go sleep on the bed," you insist.

She doesn't respond; instead, she stares intently at you. You squirm uncomfortably under her gaze.

You pick up your pants off the floor on the way to the bathroom, only realizing then that you are wearing nothing but your boxers and a shirt. Self-consciously, you wish you were bundled in a snowsuit, scarf wrapped tightly around your neck.

Her voice cuts through the thick silence. "I have your shirt."

"My shirt?" you ask, looking down at your clothes.

She nods. "It's black, with a strange Russian logo. I took it with me to Boston." She smiles and leans her head back. "Go take a shower."

You return the smile and walk into the bathroom, closing the door behind you. You had left a few shirts at her apartment out of convenience, but you had figured that she had thrown them out when she moved away. Maybe it wasn't so desperate that you had kept her clothes, after all. Or maybe it _was_ desperate; you simply hadn't been alone in your desperation.

There's only one bar of soap in a little tray full of toiletries. It smells like lavender, a little too feminine for you, but you use it anyway. You wash quickly, feeling a little uncomfortable being completely naked with Calleigh only a few feet away. A few feet and a wall, but you wouldn't be surprised if she had x-ray vision. You cannot believe that only six hours ago, you had taken a shower in the comfort of your own home.

You redress yourself in the same clothes – they are relatively clean – not that you have a choice, since you had failed to bring anything in your haste.

Calleigh is rummaging through her bag when you exit the bathroom. She notices you and smiles.

"I need a shower too," she says, showing you the clean clothes in her hand. "How's the water?"

"Good," you reply. You hesitate before continuing, picking your words carefully. "I'll go get you another bar of soap from reception." You do _not_ want to think about her using the same soap you rubbed on your own skin just minutes before.

"Oh, you don't have to. I brought my own body wash," she says, reaching into her bag, but her voice is strained, and you can tell she's caught the meaning behind your careful words.

You smile nervously and nod, busying yourself with your shirt, wishing it had buttons so you could act occupied.

Her arm brushes against yours on her way to the bathroom. It is the first physical contact you've had with her in four years, and you fight the urge to pin her against a wall and the need for her warmth against your body. You feel her shudder, but you think you are imagining things again.

"You didn't eat your sandwich," she says before she enters the bathroom.

You follow her gaze to the night table. "I will." As if on cue, your stomach grumbles.

She nods and closes the bathroom door behind her.

You sit on the bed and rest yourself against the headboard. You pick up the sandwich and fiddle with the packaging. When you finally open it, you bring the sandwich to your mouth and take a huge bite. Ham and cheese. The bread is a little dry, but you are starving, so you barely notice. You flip open your soda and take a long, quenching drink.

By the time Calleigh walks out of the bathroom, her hair still dripping slightly, you are finished both your sandwich and your drink. She moves to the chair, still taking a few extra steps, still staying close to the walls. You watch the tips of her hair form a trail of droplets in her path.

She sits down, pressing her wet hair between her palms to squeeze out the water. "How was the sandwich?"

"I was hungry enough to eat cardboard," you say with a smile, "so pretty good."

She nods in acknowledgement and returns her attention to her hair.

You feel a slew of words fighting in the back of your throat. You try to swallow them, but you can't.

"When are we going to talk about what happened?" you ask cautiously. She looks at you, but doesn't say anything. You laugh bitterly. "We can't just… not talk about it, you know." She is still quiet, now avoiding your eyes. You sigh in frustration. "It's not going to go away if you ignore it."

"Damn it, Eric, I know," she says, her voice dangerously low.

You want to say 'take your time,' but you don't think you have the patience anymore. "This is killing me, Calleigh," you admit quietly. "Not knowing how you feel about this." You motion at the space between your bodies.

She considers this for a moment. "We weren't perfect, but we were doing pretty well." Not the start you had hoped for, but at least she's talking about something deeper than shirts and sandwiches.

You decide to see where this takes you. "Yeah, we were," you say with a short nod.

She looks away. "How did it screw up?" she asks rhetorically, burying her face into her palms.

"You moved to Boston." Simple and straight to the point. No dancing around the issue, no sugarcoating. It doesn't hurt any less to say.

"I'm sorry." You sense that she knows sorry is not enough.

"It's okay," you reply, more out of habit than as an actual indication that everything is fine.

The two of you sit in quiet contemplation for a very long time, but the silence is not awkward. She is the first to speak again.

"I left you," she says softly, as if needing the physical words to make it real and to come to terms with the event. She's staring at you now, her eyes slightly red.

You swallow. "I know."

"I didn't even warn you," she says with a bitter laugh.

"I know," you repeat.

"I blindsided you."

"Calleigh—"

"I'm sorry," she interrupts, a single tear rolling down her cheek.

You feel a lump in your throat, and you hope you do not cry. You shake your head. "Don't apologize anymore."

She takes a breath. "Tell me how to make this okay," she pleads, another stubborn tear finding its way down her face. She wipes at it with the back of her hand.

"Let me in," you request softly, but you already sense her resistance in the air.

"I did." She pauses, watching you shift uncomfortably against the headboard. "I was."

"Never as much as I did," you say accusingly.

She laughs humorlessly. "That's not me."

"I know that. I just—" You sigh, closing your eyes. "Do you know how frightening it is never knowing for sure how you felt? There was never a security that I would have you forever," you tell her. It takes every ounce of your willpower to keep yourself from tearing up.

"That night—" She takes a breath to calm herself, but she doesn't regain her voice.

You ache to hold her in your arms, but you're terrified of her reaction, and you're not sure how you'll handle skin-on-skin contact. You're pretty sure Calleigh still carries her gun everywhere, and you do not want the morning to end with the barrel of her gun pressed against your temple.

"I wish I could hold you," you say softly with a frustrated sigh.

"Don't," she whispers. Even though you had known she probably wouldn't have let you, it still stings.

"I know." You laugh to cover the ache in your heart. "I just wish it was that easy. You know I'd give you the moon if I could reach it." You look at her expectantly. "Even now," you insist.

She covers her mouth with her hand, holding in a gasp. You wait for her to compose herself. "I don't deserve you," she says finally.

You close your eyes and cover your face with your hands. "Don't say that," you plead, your words falling loosely through your fingers.

"It's true," she says with a bitter laugh.

"No, it's not, Cal," you say, lifting your head out of your hands to look at her. Your voice softens. "You deserve everything you want, okay?" She doesn't say anything and looks less than convinced. You sigh. "Calleigh."

She stares at you briefly, as if reading your intentions. "You keep showing me these grand gestures that prove how much I mean to you. I don't deserve that, Eric." She sighs miserably. "I don't know why you're willing to do all these things for me, when I'm less than forthcoming with my own feelings."

"I do it because I'm crazy about you, Calleigh," you pronounce without hesitation.

She looks at you pointedly. "See what I mean?"

"Cal—"

"I'm crazy about you too." Her words are tentative, her delivery insecure. Still, she makes you feel light-headed, and your heart skips. She closes her eyes and continues, "It's not fair that these words were so uncommon from me, but I had come to expect them from you."

"Everyone's different," you say with a shrug. "You take what you can get."

She inhales, her chest rising as she does. "There are so many people out there who are open and honest, who wear their hearts on their sleeves. You wouldn't be here—" She motions vaguely at the hotel room. "—if you had picked one of them."

"I don't want them." _Only you, it's always been you_.

You stand, pulling the comforter behind you. She recoils a little when you approach her, but allows you to wrap the comforter around her. Hesitantly, you kneel down in front of the chair, pulling her toward you, using the comforter as separation, a safety net. She resists initially, her whole body tightening, curling into a ball, but eventually lets you hold her through the comforter. She rests her head on your shoulder, facing outward, away from your body. You feel her damp hair against your ear, but you are careful not to touch her directly.

Even through the thickness of the comforter, your feel her heart pounding against yours. There is never a quiet moment; your hearts take turns filling the silence, beating in a practiced rhythm that, after so many years, still belongs to the two of you.

You need this as much as she does. The two of you stay in that position for a long time. You wait for her breathing to return to normal.

When it finally does, she squirms out of the comforter, pushing you away gently. You stand, leaving the comforter with her. You back away slowly until your leg hits the side of the bed. You sit down, the mattress suddenly very stiff and uncomfortable.

She watches your every move, an awkward silence settling in the air.

"Have you ever been here before?" Calleigh asks suddenly.

You frown. She knows the answer to that one; you wonder if she's fishing. You select your words carefully. "None of my other relationships ended like _that_."

She looks confused for a moment, until she realizes you are talking about being hundreds of miles away from home to chase an ex. "I meant Raleigh," she clarifies with a soft laugh.

"Oh." You feel a blush creeping up your face. "No," you reply with a sheepish smile.

"There's a state park not far from here," she says, fiddling with the comforter, still wrapped clumsily around her waist. She looks at you. "We should go."

"You haven't eaten yet," you point out with a frown.

She smiles. "You'll be buying me breakfast to go."

She stands and carries the comforter back to the bed. She makes her way to the bathroom again, but this time, she leaves the door open. You can hear the water running for a few moments, and you picture her washing her face of a few stray tears. A few seconds later, you hear the blow-dryer whirring. You stand and pinch the bridge of your nose. You are dizzy from your embrace.

Cautiously, you follow her to the bathroom. You lean against the doorframe, watching her work with a hairdryer in one hand and a comb in the other. She stops momentarily when her eye catches yours in the mirror. The corners of her mouth turn upward for a second, before she returns to drying her hair.

When she is finished, she pushes you out of the bathroom gently and closes the door.

Ten minutes later, when the door opens, you are still standing at the same spot, your chest burning of her palm print. She looks a little surprised to see you there, and for a moment, you feel the heat emanating between your bodies.

She smiles awkwardly at you and leads you out of the hotel room. Once in the hallway, she hands you the duplicate card key. "You should have this."

You consider how eerily similar this instant is to one nearly four and a half years ago.

_"You can have this."_

_You stare at the single brass key pinched between her index and thumb, her hand extended tentatively. You stand motionless for a few seconds, absorbing the perfection of the moment._

_She takes your stillness as hesitation and encloses her fist around the key, withdrawing her hand. "You don't have to take it or anything. I just thought—"_

_You interrupt her with an impulsive kiss. She is caught off guard and stumbles backward, her back hitting her apartment door. She kisses you back instinctively, her tongue dueling possessively with yours. When she stops you to catch her breath, you grasp her fist in yours._

_"Give me," you say eagerly._

_You should've known better than to command Calleigh to do something. Her eyes narrow. "Make me," she challenges._

_You cup her cheek gingerly and bring her lips up to meet yours again. This kiss is nothing like the last; you tease her, toying with her until she's practically climbing the door in anticipation._

_She takes hold of the front of your shirt with her keyless hand and drags you closer, her lips finally finding the intensity they need from yours. You curl your fingers around her fist and pull gently at her fingertips, urging her to loosen her grip. She does so slightly, and you ease the key from her grasp._

_Smirking in victory, you break the kiss tenderly. She whimpers at the loss, but allows you to pull her body from the door. You fiddle with the key in your own fingers for a moment before pushing it into the keyhole. You struggle with the lock, nervousness and Calleigh's hand under your shirt adding to your lack of coordination. When she slips between your body and her own door and starts trailing kisses along your neckline, you groan in frustration._

_Swallowing your pride for the sake of sexual gratification, you kiss the top of her head and slip one leg between hers, pinning her against the door. "Help me." Your voice is low and gravelly, and you feel her shudder against your collarbone._

_She holds out until you press the heat between your legs against her thigh. She closes her eyes and breathes hard. Her fingers find yours, still struggling with the lock. Her gentle guidance helps you twist the key resting in the keyhole._

_The turn of a lock has never sounded sweeter to your ears._

It's hard to tell if she's recalling the same event you are, but her body is tense. Without a word, you take the card key from her and slip it into your pocket. You follow her to the elevator. A young girl and her teenage brother are waiting as well. They are dressed for the pool, and you have a sudden urge to go swimming, but you've always had to fight the need to jump into every deep body of water.

In the elevator, the siblings' friendly banter helps ease the silence and discomfort.

The receptionist smiles at the pair of you when you pass the lobby. "Hey!" he calls out. "Hey, Calleigh, right?" She stops to look at him and you feel the need to wrap a protective arm around her, but you don't. "Try our signature cinnamon buns," he says, still smiling. "The breakfast bar's still open."

She turns her head to look at you questioningly.

"Hungry?" you ask, fully aware of the answer.

"Starved," she replies, reaching for her stomach to prove her point.

You smile. "Well, you did say I have to buy you breakfast," you remind her fondly, leading her toward the breakfast bar.

Suppressing the questions still tumbling around in your body, you decide that you will allow yourself the benefit of enjoying a tasty breakfast with a beautiful woman.

Talk can wait; hot cinnamon buns can't.


	6. Chapter 6: Calleigh

**Chapter 6: Calleigh**

Your new favorite food is the cinnamon bun topped with icing, you decide, sinking your teeth into another bun, your fourth. Eric watches you eat with amusement, his first bun barely touched.

"Are you going to finish that?" you ask after swallowing the last bit of your own bun.

He shakes his head and pushes his plate toward you, a smile on his lips.

You make a face. "I don't want your bun, Eric. I was just asking." You pause, staring at the bun in front of you. "Then again, it would be a pity to let it go to waste, wouldn't it?" you ask, picking it up and bringing it to your mouth.

He opens his mouth, no doubt to reply with a witty retort, but his phone rings and he fishes it out of his pocket. He checks the caller ID and frowns. "It's Wolfe." He pauses, then tentatively asks, "How much do you want him to know?"

You drop the cinnamon bun, suddenly not very hungry anymore. "Let me talk to him."

He nods and holds the phone out toward you. "Want me to answer or—"

"No, I've got it," you say, taking his phone from him and pressing the 'talk' button.

Taking a breath, you bring the phone to your ear. "Hey, Ryan."

"You're not Eric Delko," he says flatly.

You laugh. Stating the obvious is classic Ryan. "Forgot what I sound like already?" you ask, feeling yourself breaking out into a huge smile.

He pauses for a moment, running your voice through his memory. "Calleigh?!" His voice is squeaky from bewilderment.

"The one and only."

"Jesus, where the hell did you disappear off to?" Before you can answer, he continues, "Wait, wait, wait. I called Delko." You can almost see him making the connection. "Oh."

"Yeah," you say softly, "but Ryan, don't say anything about this to anyone else."

"Okay, yeah, gotcha," he mumbles incoherently, still processing the information. "But I had drinks with Delko after work last night," he says, his brain resisting this notion. "How come he didn't tell me you're in Miami?" His words are rushed, and you fear that he will start hyperventilating.

"I'm not," you reply with a short laugh. Your eyes meet Eric's across the table. "He came for me," you say quietly, earning a shy grin from him.

"Are you coming home?" Ryan asks, his voice hopeful. You wonder why everyone refers to Miami as your home, when you neither were born there nor have lived there since so long ago. "You left so abruptly; everyone was pretty shocked." His voice softens. "We all miss you a lot, Calleigh," he admits.

You feel a tiny lump forming in your throat. "I miss you guys too," you whisper, your voice uncharacteristically shaky.

Eric reaches across the table and covers your hand with his, an instinctive provision of comfort. Your breath hitches when the slight roughness of his hand – familiar yet so foreign – moves against the silkiness of yours. You sense that his own action has caught him off guard; he stares wide-eyed at your intertwined fingers. He pulls away, and instantly, you miss the feel of his skin. You reach up to grab his hand mid-air, pulling it down to the table again. You give him a look that tells him this is acceptable, and he nods.

Ryan is still talking. "—so what do you think?"

You laugh guiltily. "I blanked out for a minute. Repeat your question?" You do not realize how low your voice is until you speak.

"Oh God, you guys are copulating right now," he states with disgust, his overactive imagination no doubt providing him countless obscure situations.

You don't even know what 'copulating' means, but you're pretty sure you can figure it out from his tone. "No—"

Once Ryan has an idea in his head, it's nearly impossible to backtrack. "You guys are totally doing it. Oh God, I'm hanging up now. Call me back when you—"

"Ryan, breathe! We're in the middle of the breakfast bar," you interrupt with an embarrassed laugh.

You can hear him silently freaking out at the other end. "_In the middle of the breakfast bar_? That is sick. Are there people around? Oh God, don't answer that." You hear banging noises through the phone. "You know what, don't call me back at all. I need to go wash my hands."

He hangs up. You pull the phone from your face and stare incredulously at it. Eric gives you a strange look. "What's going on?"

"Ryan thinks—" You smile, looking around nervously. "He thinks we're having sex in the middle of the breakfast bar," you finish quietly.

He laughs nervously, his hand vibrating against yours as he does. You return the phone to him, and he drops it back into his pocket. You wonder if he is thinking the same thing you are. You wonder if he feels the heat at his center. His leg touches yours accidentally under the table. You swallow hard, your knees suddenly weak. You don't like the unfamiliar feeling of vulnerability.

Your combined history becomes too much to handle. A second start is never a fresh start. Taking it slow is never an option when it's been four years, one month and five days. Ten hours, thirty-six minutes and ticking seconds. The fire at your core reminds you of that.

You stand and pull him up with you. "I think—" You swallow, feeling his eyes glued to yours. "I think I'm full." _For food_. You curse yourself immediately for the thought.

He looks at the abandoned bun on the table, then at your hand in his, before finally settling his gaze on your face. He nods.

"Still up for the park?" you ask, unsure which answer you'd prefer.

The look on his face and the perspiration on his hand say no. He hesitates. "Are you?"

"I asked first," you point out indignantly, frustrated that he's not putting his foot down and dragging you to the park, or to anywhere except back to the hotel room.

His shoulders raise and lower slowly. "I'll go anywhere you want to go," he says carefully, his eyes tracing the outline of your face. Subtlety has never been Eric's forte.

You swallow, picking your response cautiously. "We should—" You wish he would stop looking at you the same way you remember he did when he was more than ready for a late night. "We need to go somewhere busy, somewhere with a lot of people," you suggest, but you're not even sure that will help.

When he reaches for your other hand with his own free one and forces you to stand directly in front of him – close enough for your lips to reach his chest by leaning forward, to reach his neck by standing on your tiptoes, to reach his lips if you take a step forward – you're positive nothing will help.

"Calleigh…"

"No," you say, shaking your head persistently.

He chuckles. "You don't even know what I was about to say." But his guttural voice tells you that you do know.

"It doesn't matter," you say stubbornly, pulling away. He resists, squeezing your hands, but always careful not to hurt you. You swallow, fighting the urge to lean into him. "Eric, stop," you request, unable to raise your voice higher than a whisper. "Please."

He sobers up and lets go of your hands. You miss his skin immediately, but you feel so out of control when he touches you, and you desperately crave control.

"Sorry," he offers, his voice croaky.

You wave your hand dismissively. "You know what, let's just go to the park," you say hurriedly, willing to do almost anything to avoid talking about what just happened.

He opens his mouth to say something, but judges it inappropriate and closes his mouth again, choosing to stick with a short nod.

The breakfast bar is near closing by the time you pay for your buns and leave. He follows closely, but always at least three steps behind.

In the lobby, the creepy receptionist smiles at you again and asks you if you enjoyed your buns. You nod, too preoccupied to offer a real thank you.

Outside the hotel, Eric calls a cab to the William B. Umstead State Park, which is a shoddy idea, in your opinion, since there's nothing to do in state parks except walk, and there's really no difference walking _to_ the park or walking _in_ the park. But you keep your mouth shut, hoping to delay conversation about anything until both of you have cooled down. He opens the back door of the taxi for you, but he knows you don't appreciate chivalry, so you glare at him. He merely shrugs, but lets you close the door yourself. You are thankful that he slips into the passenger's seat.

The ride is rather uneventful, although the driver keeps glancing at Eric sitting beside him and then at you through the rearview mirror. You think that he senses the tension between the two of you, but thankfully, he knows better than to mention it.

The park is eerily quiet when you enter, which doesn't bide well with you, but you imagine that as long as Eric doesn't touch you again, you can behave yourself. A quick look at him tells you he has the same idea, because his hands are securely in his pockets.

Ten minutes and three-quarters of a mile later, neither of you have said a single word. Eric is kicking at little pebbles on the ground. One hits you in the foot, and he mumbles a quick 'sorry.' He stops kicking.

Five more impossibly long minutes after that, he stops in his tracks. "Do you know where you're going?" he asks, his hands still in his pockets.

You slow down a step but continue moving. "No." You stop, turning to look at him. "Why? Do you want to go somewhere specific?" You try to keep your tone as neutral as possible, and you think it works, because he frowns.

"Yeah, somewhere to talk, maybe?" he suggests in slight annoyance. He crosses his arms in front of his chest.

"We talked this morning," you state matter-of-factly.

"I'm not done," he says with a shrug. You watch him for a moment, before turning back to the trail in front of you and walking away. He sighs in frustration. "You know what? Never mind," he calls out after you. "Forget it, keep walking. Walk all day and all night until you get to the other side of this damn park. The grass is _not_ greener there, I promise."

You stop again and pivot to face him. You can tell that he regrets speaking out of rashness, and it's difficult to be angry at him when he's watching you with those eyes. "Say that again," you challenge testily, "to my face this time."

He stares at you incredulously. "Are you five years old?" He sighs when you glare at him. "Can we just sit down somewhere? Fifteen minutes, then you can continue your walk."

You watch him shuffle dirt nervously with his feet. You decide that you owe him this, at the very least. "Fifteen minutes," you agree finally.

He nods and follows you to a nearby field. You find a large tree and sit down, leaning against the trunk, stretching your legs out in front of you. He sits a few safe feet away and crosses his legs.

At first, he's quiet. Just as you're about to remind him that you had been serious about giving him only fifteen minutes, he speaks.

"I'm sorry about earlier, in the breakfast bar."

"Let's just forget it happened," you offer.

He doesn't seem to think that's a good idea. "I just want to get it right this time," he admits. "I _can't_ get this wrong again."

Realizing that you won't be getting out of a long reveal-all conversation, you sigh in defeat. "You got it right the first time."

He shakes his head. "No, if I had gotten it right, we wouldn't be here right now. We'd be… I don't know, four years? We'd be married, probably." He laughs nervously at the thought, and your heart jumps. "But maybe not." He frowns. "Maybe you would've agreed to marry me, then leave in the middle of the night." You don't think he had meant to sound bitter and accusatory, but he does.

You watch him for a moment. "You think I'd do that?" You sound irritated, even though you're not.

"I don't know _what_ to think, Cal." He lets out a frustrated sigh and runs his hands over his face.

You both sit in silence for a few minutes. The silence turns awkward, and his eyes start to dart around the field.

_Now or never_.

"I was ready to marry you," you say quietly.

He freezes in his place, his eyes now still. You shift against the bark and wish you would shrink. You pick at a dandelion growing beside you. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Shocked into silence, you think wryly.

You take a deep breath. "I knew it would be you." You smile sadly, and his eyes meet yours. "Maybe I knew all along." You see him swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing. He opens his mouth again to speak, but you continue, "Eric, I was—" You bite your lip.

_Now or never._

"I was so in love with you."

He closes his eyes and leans back, holding himself up with his arms. He chuckles mirthlessly. "But you left."

You nod slowly, feeling your heart pounding in your chest. "I know. But I was. If you don't believe me, well—" You lean your head against the bark, seeing the eager woman from the airplane in your mind. "I don't know."

"I want so badly to believe you, Calleigh," he says softly, his voice on the verge of cracking.

You pray that he doesn't cry, because you know you wouldn't be able to stop your own tears if he does. "I wanted it to work, Eric. I—"

"Why did you leave?" The question you had hoped he would never ask, but knew he inevitably would.

You offer him the same response you did four years ago. "Horatio would've fired you."

"Bullshit."

You look away, a little stunned by his language. He had always been careful with swearing around you; he knew that you didn't appreciate it being used outside of the bedroom. "If you don't believe me, ask him."

"He—" He shakes his head skeptically. "He told you that?"

You nod. "Yeah. The integrity of the team was always his number one priority. You know that, Eric. He said he knew we could be professional, but if we were ever in dangerous situations on the field, we'd act out of emotion, rather than out of reason, and he couldn't afford any slip-ups." You pause, studying his reaction. "He was right, you know," you continue quietly. "If someone threatened to put your life in danger, I—" You sigh. "I would've contaminated evidence, or lied, or—" You swallow, feeling vulnerable. "I didn't trust myself."

"I would've left," he says, still staring at you. "I could've become, I don't know, a swimming coach, or gone back to strictly underwater recovery." He pauses, as if gauging how much he should reveal. "It didn't matter what I was, as long as you were there with me," he says quietly. "I was ready to spend the rest of my life with you, Calleigh. But I don't think you ever were ready for a life with me. I don't think you ever wanted that."

You swallow, your throat dry. "I did." You close your eyes, hoping your eyelids will hold in your tears.

He scoffs. "That's even harder to believe."

You laugh, because it hurts to hear him doubt your words. "I mean it."

"Okay," he says slowly.

"You don't believe me." You phrase it like a statement.

"No," he replies simply.

"How—" You open your eyes and turn to him. He's watching you. You look away. "What can I do to convince you?" you ask softly.

He stares at you for a long time. "I'm not sure, Calleigh."

You don't know when his fifteen minutes are over, but you don't trust yourself to stand, so you sit there, under a huge oak tree, waiting for his next question, waiting to provide another useless answer. He doesn't speak, however. He's watching a little boy on the other side of the field flying a kite.

"I didn't want children," you hear yourself saying. You're not sure why you say it, but he turns to face you again. "I thought you'd be devastated if I told you," you elaborate.

"I would've gotten over it," he says immediately, shrugging. "Calleigh, the thought of me having children with another woman makes me sick to my stomach. I don't want children if I can't have them with you." His voice softens. "I don't want anything if I can't share it with you."

You shake off his words, hoping that if you don't allow them to register, you won't feel the guilt. You feel a sting in your chest anyway. "In your perfect life, you would have children though," you say gently, not realizing how much it would hurt to say until you've said it.

"There's no such thing as perfect, Cal." He pauses and takes a deep breath. "I don't want perfect, I just want you. Why couldn't you see that?" He looks at you, as if expecting a response, but you're still processing his words, still rejecting his open heart.

He leans backwards until he's lying down on the grass and stretches out his legs in front of him. He moves his hands up to cup the back of his head, using them as a sort of pillow. He stares up at the sky and watches the clouds drift across the sky. You consider lying down next to him, but there's no guarantee you won't be tempted to lie _on top_ of him, so you stay rooted to your seat beside the tree. Maybe, you think to yourself, you should just climb on top of him and get it over with, little boy across the field be damned. Maybe he wouldn't try to talk about anything anymore. Doubtful, you think, and you're not sure you're ready to quite literally screw everything up.

"You left because you didn't want children?" he asks abruptly, shaking you from your thoughts.

"No, I left because—" You pause, considering your words. "I left because of a combination of everything." You laugh, because you know you've provided another thoroughly useless answer.

"You left because you didn't want children," he repeats, this time as a statement.

You sigh. "Don't be like that, Eric," you plead.

"Calleigh, you just said—"

"Do you know how many times your mother mentioned grandchildren?" you interrupt.

"So you left because of my mother," he says flatly.

You stare at him, horrified. "No! How could you even say that? You know I loved your mom."

"So what the hell, Cal?" he asks, aggravated. He moves his hands to cover his face.

You pick at the dandelion again. This time, it comes out of the ground. You twirl it absentmindedly between your fingers. "First of all, I was serious about the work situation. I didn't think it would be fair to you if you lost your job, and I wasn't ready to leave ballistics."

"I really appreciate you discussing that with me," he says dryly.

You glare at him. "Do you want to hear number two or not?"

He motions for you to continue.

"Second, you come from such a warm, loving family," you say, your voice softer. "I didn't. I'm terrified of screwing up the way my parents did and ending up with children like my brothers. I got off lucky, I suppose." You pause, smiling sadly. "I saw the way you held your nieces and nephews. I saw the way your sisters teased you about settling down and having your own to spoil. Your eyes lit up, Eric. You tried to hide it, because it was the manly thing to do, but you couldn't wait for little pitter-pattering feet. You couldn't wait for bedtime stories and finger-painting and—" Your voice trails off helplessly.

His attention is on you now, and this makes you uncharacteristically nervous. His mouth opens and closes without a single word. He tries again. "I—"

"Third," you interrupt, because you're not sure you can make it to your last reason if he speaks again. "I couldn't lose you if I never got you."

"That's crazy, Calleigh," he says, his eyes searching for yours.

You laugh humorlessly. "I wouldn't say that, given my track record." You turn to look at him, still lying on the grass. "Everyone I love leaves me, Eric. My parents, my brothers, Tim, John, Jake. Every person who I let get close either disappoints me or dies." Being so honest with your thoughts is rare for you, and you feel old wounds being reopened. You reason that those wounds never healed properly, but it still hurts. The pain is almost refreshing after so many years of numbness.

"So you left me to prevent me from leaving you?" he asks in disbelief. He sits up, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. "Are you listening to yourself?" He takes a deep breath in and leans forward, resting his face in his hands, his elbows held up by his knees. "This is crazy," he mumbles.

In the end, you realize that the third reason is really the only reason. The first two are nothing more than poorly-fabricated, poorly-executed excuses. Your thoughts make so little sense when stated plainly, yet in your head, the fear that he would leave you was suffocating. You hate that you cannot transcribe that fear into words.

"Your fifteen minutes is up," you hear yourself saying, even though it's been long up, and time is rarely a factor where the two of you are concerned.

He looks up. "You're insane." You know that he's not talking about you timing him, but rather about the reasons you have just handed him.

"Maybe," you reply dismissively, "but you're here too."

"We're both insane," he says with a short laugh. "What are we doing here?" He looks like it's only hit him for the first time that he's in Raleigh, North Carolina, sitting in a state park with a woman he hasn't seen in four years, listening to her reveal some of her most intimate thoughts. You wonder if he believes a single word you've said. Somewhere, a defensive voice tells you that you don't really care either way. The pang in your chest tells you differently.

You wonder if it's too late, if you've lost your first chance and already messed up your second. Deep down, you know that nobody is foolish enough to give you three chances to step all over their heart.

"You were right," you say suddenly.

He gives you a confused look. "About what?"

You feel pieces of a dandelion stem in your fingers. Looking down, you realize that you have completely massacred the poor weed. "I wanted a second chance," you say, referring to the angry phone call you had with him after you had failed to board your connecting flight to Miami.

"Wanted or _want_?" he asks immediately, and you hear his heart beating steadily in the humid air.

"Want." Your lack of hesitation surprises even you. "I want a second chance," you repeat softly, with the correct verb tense this time.

He nods slowly, considering the implications of your this conversation. "How do we make this work?" he asks tentatively.

"I don't know," you answer truthfully, your head overflowing with questions of your own. "We hope for a fresh start, I guess," you say carefully.

He stands and offers you a hand, but you stand up by yourself. He retracts his hand. You don't think this is a great beginning to this 'fresh start,' but he ignores your reluctance and speaks.

"Calleigh?" he asks softly, appearing slightly nervous. His hands are in his pockets again. "I was wondering if you'd like to go out sometime." _Fresh start,_ his eyes add, _don't fuck it up_.

"Are you sure you don't need time to think about this?" you ask, partly stalling and mostly needing assurance that he knows what he's getting into again.

He nods. "Never been surer about anything in my life," he says with conviction. He pauses, watching you tentatively. "Does that mean—" He smiles timidly. "Is that a yes?"

You feel your heart softening. "Depends where you plan on taking me," you tease.

"Playing hard-to-get doesn't suit you, Calleigh," he says with a soft laugh.

You smile, nodding. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah," you say, "okay."


	7. Chapter 7: Eric

**Chapter 7: Eric**

Both you and Calleigh are deep in thought all the way back out the park. You hate that only time will tell how this story will play out. You hate that your heart bursts of hope, and you know that you are not ready for a second heartbreak. Your old wounds still seem so fresh. You wonder if heartache is a legitimate cause of death and if Alexx has the tools to figure that out if you're ever on her table.

Calleigh pivots so suddenly that you nearly walk into her. She seems a little taken aback by how close you are.

"I need to go back to the hotel for a few minutes," she tells you. "To freshen up. Pick up a few things."

You nod. "Okay," you reply, as calmly as you can muster, even though mention of the hotel has you fighting the image of her naked body pressed against yours in the hotel room bed.

Twenty minutes and a taxi ride later, you're still wondering how to avoid touching her when you reach the room. You know fully well that a fresh start does not mean you start where you left off, but your body is fighting the temptation to test how well she'd react to that.

She solves your dilemma for you when she stops you in the lobby. "You can wait for me here. I'll just be a minute." She smiles, and you are glad one of you can still think straight. You consider that she might be afraid of the same uncontrollable urges, but you dismiss that thought immediately, because Calleigh _always_ has control.

As soon as she leaves, your phone rings. Caller ID says Ryan Wolfe again. You bring the phone to your ear.

"What's up?"

"Hey, Delko." The voice at the other end is cautious. Ryan clears his throat. "You guys aren't, uh, _busy_ or anything right now, are you?"

"No," you say with an embarrassed laugh, "she's not even here right now."

"Are you _sure_?"

"Yes, I'm sure," you reply in exasperation. "She's upstairs in the hotel room. I'm waiting for her in the lobby."

"_You guys got a hotel room together_?!" he asks, thoroughly spooked. "Nice going, man. Way to be respectful and take it slow."

"Nothing happened. _Nothing_, okay?" You sigh in disbelief. "Nothing happened this morning, nothing's happening now, and nothing will happen tonight if I have a say in it." The last one doesn't convince you.

He mirrors your doubt. "Right."

"We're adults, Wolfe, and we aren't even sleeping next to each other. I think we can handle it," you rationalize.

"I'm just saying, how long's it been now? Four years?" He pauses. "Four years is a heck of a long time. Since you did this for her and she didn't throw up in your face, that tells me that both of you still want this to work. If you want my two cents—"

"I don't," you interrupt quickly.

"Okay, well, I'm giving it anyway." He ignores your groan and continues. "I'm not sure this is such a good idea, Delko."

The possibility of this having a bad ending is a sensitive topic with you. "Why are you calling anyway?" you snap crossly.

He sighs. "I'm glad my advice is appreciated," he remarks sarcastically.

You run your fingers through your hair. "I'm dying when I'm not with her, Wolfe," you admit quietly.

His voice softens. "I know," he replies, "but you'd die faster if she hurts you a second time."

"I can't _not_ take this chance," you say with a shake of the head. "I have to just go for it or I'll spend the rest of my life wondering if I should've."

"And if it doesn't work out?" he asks pointedly. "You'll spend the rest of your life wondering what you could've done differently."

"So I'll make it work," you reply stubbornly.

He sighs. "Not everything works like that. I'm just trying to be rational." You can almost see him shrugging. "Look, Delko. I didn't know Calleigh as well as you did, but I know this: she's not easy. You know what I mean. This won't be easy."

You take a deep breath in. "I know. I just—" You exhale. "I just feel like we can do this."

"Okay." He pauses, and his voice softens. "It doesn't sound like it, but I'm rooting for you."

"Thanks, Wolfe."

You only realize that you have been staring expectantly at the elevator door when you see Calleigh walking out of it and approaching you. You swallow, wondering if she knows what she can do to you.

Calleigh stops in front of you and smiles. She is standing a little closer than she had allowed herself earlier, so you take this as a sign that things are finally looking up.

"Who is it?" she mouths, pointing to your phone. You give her a quizzed look. "On the phone," she clarifies.

You smile sheepishly, only then hearing Ryan's voice in your ear again. You're not sure what he's blabbing about, but you interrupt.

"Wolfe, listen," you say with a short laugh. "I have no idea what you're talking about, but Calleigh's here."

"Is that my cue to hang up?" he asks dryly.

"No, what are you—" You shake your head disbelievingly, shooting Calleigh a look that tells her Ryan's overactive imagination is at work again. "Anyway, you want to talk to her?"

"To both of you, actually. Put me on speakerphone." You hold the phone in the air between your bodies and press the speaker button. Ryan's voice comes out loud and clear for all to hear. "Unless you guys are, _you know_."

Calleigh laughs to hide her embarrassment. "Unless we're what, Ryan?" she asks innocently.

"Oh!" Ryan sounds surprised to hear Calleigh's voice. "Speakerphone's already on," he notes.

"Yeah, nice observation, captain obvious," you say sarcastically. Calleigh laughs softly at your lame joke. You smile slightly at her and turn your attention back to the phone in your hand. "Now let's hear it. What did you have to tell us?"

"I, uh—" He clears his throat. "I think Horatio knows why you're not at work today."

Calleigh looks at you questioningly, but you return her confusion. "What makes you think that?" you ask.

"He got a phone call this morning. When he hung up, he had this sour look on his face." Ryan says this as if it were the most genius thing he's ever said.

"Okay, Wolfe," you say with a short laugh, "he gets phone calls all the time."

Calleigh rests her hand on your arm and smiles. "And if I remember him correctly, he _always_ has this sour look on his face," she supplies.

"Very funny, guys," Ryan retorts sarcastically. "Anyway, then, even more suspiciously, he got a strange report that he wouldn't show anyone else. Next, Valera overheard him calling Cooper and she says it sounded like he was grilling him about you. About five minutes ago, he asked me if I knew why you were taking the day off or where you were."

You frown, and Calleigh gives you another look. "What did you say?" she asks.

"I said no, because I really don't know where, and I didn't really think it was his business why. He didn't look convinced though." He pauses. "You should call him before he figures everything out, if he hasn't already."

"Yeah, yeah, I think I will," you say, a little distracted by Calleigh's hand, still on your arm. "Thanks."

"No problem," Ryan replies. "Hey, listen, I have to get back to this case I'm working on. We're being a little overworked today since _some_body didn't show up." He sounds irritated, and you don't think he has any right to be.

You have to take a breath to keep yourself from yelling at him. Calleigh picks up on your tense stance, because she squeezes your arm. "Bye, Ryan," she says quickly, attempting to avoid a fight. Before you can react, she grabs the phone from you and closes it. She slips it back into your pocket; her hand grazes your hip and you have to look away and swallow.

"I wasn't going to pick a fight," you say, crossing your arms over your chest.

She looks unconvinced. "Okay," she replies with a knowing smile.

You frown. "I wasn't!"

"I know," she says with a nod. You follow her gaze to her hand, still resting on your arm. She pulls it away. You want to tell her that she can put it back, but you don't want to make it more awkward than it has already become. "Call Horatio," she suggests softly.

You take the phone back out of your pocket, tracing the location where her hand had passed just moments before. Calleigh watches your every move. You pause, sighing, and she gives you a questioning look.

"It's just…" You inhale slowly. "I never knew H really told you he would fire one of us if we pursued a relationship."

She nods. "It's not his fault, though. I probably would've left anyway," she admits apprehensively.

Suppressing the disappointment, you bring the phone to your ear. After a few rings, Horatio's composed voice comes across the line.

"Eric, hi, how can I help you?" His calmness makes you slightly nervous.

You release the breath you hadn't realized you had been holding. "Hey, H, I was just calling to make sure Cooper told you I needed the day off." You contemplate adding 'family emergency,' but you're not sure how much he knows, and you are not about to jeopardize your chances of getting out of this situation unscathed even further.

"It's a little late for courtesy calls, isn't it?"

You curse how difficult it is to read Horatio's tone. "Look, H, I'm sorry." You decide to go with another carefully vague statement. "I just got caught up with something."

"Or someone." _Shit_. The look on your face must have been very obvious, because Calleigh appears to catch on. She returns her hand to your arm. You search for a justification to offer Horatio, but Calleigh's closeness is distracting. Horatio clears his throat. "Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

Unable to come up with a lie and knowing that Horatio would see through whatever you manage to come up with, you go with what you know. "I'm with Calleigh," you admit quietly. You sound like a little boy who has been caught throwing paper airplanes behind the teacher's back. At the mention of her name, Calleigh runs her hand up and down your arm. Your breath hitches, but thankfully, she doesn't notice.

Horatio chuckles slightly. "I know that, and Eric, I would have appreciated a heads up."

"Yeah, next time, definitely," you promise, nodding.

"Let's make it so there isn't a next time," he says vaguely. He senses your confusion and clarifies, "Do it right and bring her home."

You frown, a little taken aback by his words. After all, wasn't this the same man who threatened Calleigh that certain lines were never to be crossed? Did this mean that sometime in the past four years, Horatio had had a change of heart? What did this mean for you and Calleigh, once you've returned to Miami?

Horatio interrupts your thoughts. "Um, Eric? How is she?"

"She cut her hair," you blurt out. You hear Calleigh's soft laugh.

Horatio chuckles. "Okay, well, I'll take that as a 'good.'"

"Yeah, she looks great," you say, turning to look at Calleigh again. She smiles and rests her free hand on your hip. Judging that move to be too intimate, she removes it immediately, but the remains of her palm print burns.

"Eric, there's just one more thing," Horatio says, his voice meaning business.

"Shoot."

"I have a report here that says someone used a Miami-Dade police badge to coerce flight information from an airport employee at Raleigh-Durham international." He pauses to judge your reaction; you are sure Horatio Caine is trained in the recognition of breathing patterns. "Do you know anything about that?"

You swallow. "I—"

"Regardless," he interrupts, "it'll be hard to play around those security tapes and this young lady's account, especially since she's given such a detailed description of the suspect."

You sigh, running your fingers through your hair. "What should I do?" you ask, your voice betraying your nervousness.

"Leave it to me, Eric. I'll do my best to protect you and Calleigh," he pledges sincerely.

You tense when Calleigh's name is mentioned. "Wait, what does Calleigh have to do with this?" you ask, your brows furrowing. Calleigh searches your eyes for clues, but you look away.

"Calleigh has everything to do with this." He pauses. "It seems that in order to get this information, the suspect implied that Calleigh was involved in some terrorist activity." You curse yourself for being so stupid. "Her name has been flagged in all international airports, so stay on the ground."

"We—" Not wanting him to get the same idea as Ryan had, you backtrack. "She has a hotel room under her name."

Horatio considers this for a moment. "Okay, uh, have you eaten lunch yet?"

"No," you reply, unsure why that's relevant.

"Here's what you're going to do." You can almost see him standing in the middle of the lab with his hand on his hip. "Check out as soon as possible. Go eat something, then hop on the first Greyhound headed due south. This will be a lot less messy if we do not have North Carolina officials getting involved."

"IAB's going to love this," you mumble.

"Don't worry about that now, okay, Eric?"

"Yeah, alright, thanks H," you say, grateful that he's willing to cover for you yet again.

"Okay, keep me posted."

"I will."

"Say hi to Calleigh for me."

Slipping the phone back into your pant pocket, you look guiltily at Calleigh.

She searches your eyes. "What's going on?"

"I, um—" You smile guiltily. "H says hi," you stall.

"Eric," she warns.

"Okay, your passport's been flagged," you say, exhaling.

She makes a confused face. "How'd that happen?"

"Well, I kind of insinuated that you were up to no good at the airport," you say slowly.

She gives you a confused look. "I don't und—"

"I was looking for you," you interrupt, speaking a little too loudly. You lower your voice. "I thought you had boarded another plane and I panicked. The airport girl was asking too many questions and time was running out." You take a deep breath and grab her hands. "I didn't want to lose you," you finish quietly.

"I don't know what you just said, but it's pretty hard to argue with that point," she replies softly with a small smile.

"I can probably explain better later," you offer and she nods in understanding.

"H thinks we should grab a quick lunch and then catch a bus back to Miami." You study her reaction. You know as much as she does what it means if she were to return to Miami. Raleigh is safe; anywhere but southern Florida is controlled territory. For a moment, you're worried you've scared her back into her shell again. When she doesn't offer any reaction, you attempt to cover up. "We don't have to. It was just an idea," you say with a dismissive shrug. "It's up to you."

She watches you struggle with your words, then carefully formulates her own. "Well, I haven't known Horatio to ever have been wrong before," she says slowly, as if testing her decision.

You nod, trying to forget the complications of bringing her back to Miami. "If you're sure."

"I was supposed to make it there by myself," she points out. She hesitates for a moment and you feel her tension through your intertwined fingers. She leans toward you and rests her cheek on your chest, the top of her head nestled under your chin. Instinctively, your hands release hers and find their way to the small of her back, pulling her closer carefully. Her arms snake around your midsection; her grip on your body is firm but gentle, just the way you remember it. You fight the shiver that threatens to run down your body. You can't fight the same shiver, however, when she whispers a handful of loaded words, her jaw moving against your chest.

"Take me home, Eric."

Unable to form a coherent reply, you press a soft kiss against her forehead. The feel of her skin under your lips rushes blood to your head and your heartbeat quickens. She tenses slightly in your arms at the gesture, but doesn't protest.

When you finally recover your voice, you say the first thing that comes to mind. "Do you want lunch?" Not eloquent, but it breaks the silence.

She pulls away reluctantly and you ache immediately for her warmth. You wonder how long it will be until she no longer has this effect on you. You hope never.

"Let's grab some fast food and catch an earlier bus," she murmurs.

Her suggestion surprises you a little, but as long as she's not hiding anymore, you'll take every positive sign she offers. In the middle of the lonely hotel lobby, your voices handfuls of decibels under what the nosy receptionist can make out, your heart soars, beating anxiously in your chest cavity.


	8. Chapter 8: Calleigh

**Chapter 8: Calleigh**

Twenty-four hours ago, if someone had told you that you would be on a bus headed to Miami, sitting next to Eric Delko, the very man you had left four years ago, you would've laughed. But this is no joke. The initial disbelief is starting to wear off, and as reality starts to set in, the mixture of emotions swirling around inside you becomes too difficult to keep compartmentalized.

After the hotel room keycards had been returned, you and Eric had stopped at a Subway's and had each grabbed a sub and a drink. The cab ride to the Greyhound station had been filled with light conversation – nothing too serious, but enough to fill the silence and avoid the awkwardness that persisted heavily before and during the fateful stroll through the state park.

Now, facing twenty hours on what you have decided is nothing more than a large box on wheels, you feel a slight panic, because you have nowhere to hide and most definitely nowhere to run.

Luckily, very few people travel by bus from Raleigh to Miami, especially around noon on a Thursday, so the two of you, sitting at the back of the vehicle, are rather secluded.

At the same time, the vacancy is intimidating, because it offers very little distraction from the man beside you. And you have decided that without distraction from him for a whole day could potentially be very dangerous. For now, a comforting silence has settled in, and you know that fatigue is plaguing both your bodies, so you look out the window and watch as the bus pulls onto the interstate, your mind drifting, but never far from one person.

_He reaches over you to press the off button on the remote control to his DVD player. He stretches and yawns, lazily draping his arm over your stomach. He is lying behind you on the couch, something you have gotten used to. You're not sure if it's the practice or if it's always been this way, but the curve of his body fits so perfectly with yours. _

_"Aren't you scared of anything?" he asks in disbelief. Three straight psychological thrillers has him running a cold sweat, and you can hear his heart still pounding into your back, but you've shown no signs of anything resembling fear. _

_You shift your body on the couch until you can face him. "Ants," you reply, only to humor him. _

_But he knows of this fear, so he rolls his eyes. "Other than ants." _

_You smile, considering this for a moment. "Nope." _

_"That's impossible," he replies immediately. _

_"I'm not scared of anything else, Eric," you say with mock indignation. "I'm a tough girl." _

_"Everyone's scared of _something_, Calleigh." You open your mouth to object, but he interrupts you. "Other than ants," he repeats sternly. "It's the law of… fear," he supplies, as if that explains everything. _

_"Really?" you ask with an amused smile. _

_"Yeah," he replies with conviction, nodding to prove his point. _

_"Okay, Mr. Law-of-Fear, what are you scared of?" _

_"Nothing," he replies quickly, dismissively, and a quick flash of embarrassment appears in his eyes. _

_You chuckle and lean into him to place a soft kiss over his heart. "You can tell me," you urge softly. _

_He shakes his head forcefully. "No." His voice is suddenly serious, and he's holding onto you tighter than before. _

_You brush your lips gently against his, and they linger just long enough to make your heart skip a beat. When you pull away, his eyes are closed. You reach up to stroke his face. "Hey, do you trust me?" You know the answer, but you ask anyway, because you know that it will soften him up. _

_"With my life," he replies, his voice relaxed again. He opens his eyes to look at you, and the embarrassment has been replaced with a tender determination. _

_You kiss him again, because you're helplessly drawn to him, and you know, by the way his lips hungrily seek yours, that you've sealed the deal. So you ask again. "Eric, what are you afraid of?" _

_He stares at you, long and hard, and a whole minute passes before he finally answers. _

_"Losing you." _

Looking back, it never was simpler than that. All along, his fear has always mirrored your own. While this connection should have made the bond you shared stronger, it didn't. You never let it, because you never admitted to him that you had the same fear. Easier to let go, easier to leave.

But so much harder to come back to.

"How am I going to face them?" you hear yourself asking.

In the seat beside you, Eric shifts. "Who?"

"Everyone." You turn to face him. "Everyone back at the lab."

"You've got nothing to worry about, Cal," he says. "They'll be too excited to see you to ask the tough questions."

"That's your job, right?" you ask dryly.

He sighs. "Cal…" A hint of defeat with an edge of anger rings from his tone.

"I didn't mean that," you say softly. You pause, and you offer a weak smile. "I'm glad you asked them."

He covers your hand with his and nods, but you don't think he believes you. He takes a moment to look at you. Finally, he settles with steering the conversation back a few lines of dialogue. "They'll understand," he reassures, and even though his voice is sincere, it's difficult to believe him.

"It's just that I left without much of a goodbye," you say, studying the way his large hand envelopes your tiny one.

His silence tells you that your words have cut deeper than you had cared to anticipate.

You turn to the window again. The trees that line the road bleed into each other, and you watch the blur fly by. "I can't apologize again." You hadn't meant to say exactly that, but those are the words that leave your lips. You turn back to glance at him.

He seems to understand, far better than you had expected him to, and he nods once, slowly. "I don't expect you to."

Fair enough, you think to yourself, and the consistent hum of the bus fills what would have been another silence. You turn your attention back to the window, and you wait for a few exits to pass by before you speak again.

"How is everyone?"

"They're good," he replies. "You already talked to Ryan."

"Yeah," you say, nodding. "And Alexx?" The older woman had always been a motherly figure to you, and aside from Eric, you imagined that she'd be the one most upset by your relocation.

"She took it pretty hard when you left so abruptly," he admits, "but she understands."

"I should've gone to see her," you say quietly, your words tinged with regret.

"Calleigh, she understands," he repeats, giving your hand a quick squeeze, but it doesn't ease your conscience.

You turn again, and your eyes meet his. "What about Valera? Natalia?" You had been especially appreciative of the fact that there were other women closer to your age at the lab, and while you rarely let people close, you had considered them good friends.

"They, uh, they were there for me," he replies, looking down at his lap. "After you left," he clarifies. "So they know why."

For a split second, you question what he had meant by that, and exactly _how_ were they there for him? But you quickly dismiss that idea, because you still know him well enough to know that he wouldn't seek that form of comfort. At least not from his friends. "What do they think about that?" you ask carefully.

He shrugs, still avoiding your eyes. "They get it. They're too busy missing you to really care why."

And you know that they weren't the only ones who miss you, but you can't handle any more guilt, so you push that thought to the back of your mind. "I should've seen them too."

After you've inquired about another half a dozen people from the lab, he stops you with his free hand against your cheek. "Hey, don't worry, okay?"

You nod against his palm, and his fingertip lingers on your cheek for a moment longer than necessary. The tenderness of his gesture is a little overwhelming, and you take a shaky breath to calm your nerves.

"How's the guy who replaced me?" you ask suddenly.

"Not nearly as easy on the eyes," he replies with a chuckle.

You smile in spite of yourself. "Eric," you warn. "What's his name?"

He looks at you for a moment, as if gauging whether you genuinely want to know all this about your replacement, or if you're only using this to fill the empty space. He settles for the former, or maybe he believes in the latter and answers to grant your wish. "Greg. Gregory Johnson. He's a heck of a lot better than the last guy who replaced you. Jim something?"

"Markham," you supply with a soft chuckle. "Yeah, he was… special." You shift slightly in your seat and stifle a yawn.

"You should get some rest," he insists, noticing your exhaustion.

"You too," you reply, stifling another yawn.

He nods and rubs his eyes. "Yeah, we both need rest."

"You first," you say with a slight smile.

He gives you a bewildered look. "What?"

You're not sure if it's the fatigue or if the situation really is funny, but you laugh. "Close your eyes."

"But—"

"Close your eyes, Eric."

He shakes his head in disbelief but humors you, closing his eyes and reclining his seat. You watch him for a few moments, your gaze falling on the small smile that remains on his lips. You fight the urge to lean closer. Slowly, one of his eyes flutters open, just enough to see you staring back at him. He closes it immediately, his smile growing wider.

"Eric!"

He opens both his eyes to look at you and smiles sheepishly. "Hey, you were supposed to close your eyes, too."

You make no attempt to hide your own smile. "There was never such an agreement," you reply coyly.

"So what, you were just going to sit there and watch me sleep?" he asks in disbelief.

You look down at his hand, still covering yours, then back up at his face. "You know how much I used to love doing that," you say, smiling faintly.

He smiles back, nostalgically, a little sadly, and closes his eyes again. You watch him for a few minutes, until the muscles in his face relax and his head falls slightly to the side. You reach out to run your fingers down his cheek, gently so you don't wake him, feeling skin and stubble and _Eric_. He mumbles something incoherent and you snap your hand back immediately, not wanting to be caught touching him with a certain degree of intimacy. You recline your own seat and lie back into it, keeping your eyes on the sleeping form beside you. Your attempts to stay awake are futile, however, and you succumb to your exhaustion.

When you awaken, it is dark outside, and the bus is illuminated by small lights on the ceiling. You squint, waiting for your eyes to adjust. Your head is resting on something warm and firm, and when you realize that it is Eric's shoulder, your head snaps up so quickly that you have to bring your palm to your forehead to stabilize the sudden throbbing.

Beside you, Eric is smiling cheekily, and the look on his face tells you that he's smiling about more than your unfortunate headache.

"What?" you ask, checking to make sure there was nothing on your clothes.

"Nothing," he replies, still smirking audaciously.

"No, really, what?" you ask again, with a little more urgency. You despise it when people know more than they're letting on.

He seems to remember this too, or at least the consequences of keeping something from you, so he sobers up for a moment. "I don't remember you ever talking in your sleep before," he notes, studying your reaction.

"I still don't," you say slowly, calmly, but inside, you're panicking, mentally running through anything you could've possibly said. Unconscious thoughts are usually private ones, and nothing makes you feel more vulnerable than exposing what really goes on in your head.

He raises his eyebrow, his lips curling upward again. "So I just imagined it?"

"Yes!" you agree quickly. You want to slap that stupid grin off his face, but your curiosity gets the best of you. "What did I say?"

"I thought I imagined it?" he asks, feigning innocence.

You frown, and you feel your hand forming into a fist. "Then what did you imagine I said?" Your voice borders on dangerous.

"You said, 'No, the potatoes need more butter.'" He laughs then, authentic and free, maybe the first real laugh you've heard from him since he showed up at your hotel room door.

You stare at him for a moment, unsure whether to laugh or scowl. "You're making this up," you say finally.

"No, I'm not!" he denies. He pauses and laughs again. "Did you have a dream about potatoes?"

"I don't remember." His laughter has put you in a better mood, and at the very least, you no longer want to physically hurt him. "Was that the only thing I said?" you ask, needing to make sure you revealed nothing more than potatoes.

"Yeah," he replies with a short nod.

"Are you sure?"

His cheeky smile returns, and he looks inhibited for a brief moment. "No, you also said, 'I wish Eric Delko would kiss me already.'"

"Eric!" You punch him in the arm to hide your own embarrassment, and even though you know you haven't said those words, your feel the tips of your ears turning a dark shade of pink.

But the look on his face has changed from humor to longing, and you know, even before it happens, that everything changes, right here, right now. Change, you can handle; it's his approaching form that you can't. Or maybe this is not change, after all. Maybe this is anti-change, meant to revert back to how the two of you were before you sliced his heart in half. Whatever it is, it's making your hand tremble, and for a person who is addicted to control, nothing is scarier than losing it. Losing it in his arms, against his lips, however, is probably the best way to go. Still, you fight, your palms resting feebly against his chest, your eyes diverting from his unwavering gaze.

And when his lips finally reach yours, you know that you've lost the battle. Your hands grasp the same shirt you had been resisting a moment before, pulling him impossibly closer, and your eyelids fall over your eyes, because your body knows that you want all senses focused on the feel of his lips only.

Old and familiar, but with a renewed exoticism that makes your heart race and your head pound. Impatient and demanding, his lips are moving too fast for yours to follow, but somehow, you keep up, your fingers reaching up to the back of his neck to pull him even closer. He doesn't even test you with his tongue, only pushes it between your lips urgently, running it along your teeth, reaching and waiting for yours. When your tongues meet, the feel makes you moan into his mouth.

It's not enough, though, it never is, and when his hand slips under your blouse, reality rears its ugly head.

You are on a bus.

A big, near-empty bus, but a bus nonetheless, with a driver and a handful of passengers.

As quickly as the kiss began, it ends, and you pull back breathlessly. Your hands are pushing his chest away again, and you can feel his persistent heartbeat under your right palm. His hand is still resting against your abdomen, and he moves it to your face, but you shrug it off, despite how amazing it feels to be touched by him.

Your weak resistance is almost laughable, because when he leans in again, your hands drop to his hips. He kisses you again, softer this time, delicately, less passion and more meaning. You hear his unspoken truths, his tender promises, and you respond the same way.

There is no panic, no struggle, when you break away the second time. A flame within you has been reignited. He smiles at you, a little apologetically, and you can't help but smile back.

You're not sure what to say, and he seems to face the same dilemma, so you turn to look out the window again. You can see the horizon in the distance. The sun is rising, and you can't help but think how poetic this new dawn really is.

At the same time, a part of you is still fighting against not only the kiss, but also the decision to leave Boston and then Raleigh in the first place. But for once in your life, you decide that you're not going to brood over this any longer than you absolutely have to. Nothing about this is rational, and no amount of time spent speculating will make it so.

Love overrules logic.

You turn back to look at him, because nothing outside the window is as gorgeous as he is. He smiles when your eyes meet.

"Where are you taking me?" you ask suddenly, a little taken aback by the peaceful tone of your voice.

He gives you an incredulous look. "Miami," he replies slowly, hinting obviousness.

"No." You smile, and you feel your cheeks flushing uncharacteristically. "For our date," you clarify softly.

"Oh." He seems momentarily stunned. "Well, that's a surprise," he replies finally.

You laugh. "You have no idea, do you?"

He raises his arms in defeat. "Hey, you girls are always whining about how there's not enough spontaneity left in this world."

"There isn't," you reply, still smiling.

"Well," he says, gesticulating wildly in the air, "I'm showing you some."

"Eric," you say, trying to look stern, "there's a difference between spontaneity and being unorganized."

He smiles and touches the tip of your nose with his index finger. "Picky."

Normally, you would break his finger, or maybe even his whole hand, but today, you're still riding the high of finally getting to taste his lips again, so you find his childish gesture endearing. You look out the window once more, and the sun has risen a little bit more, but even the sunrise pales in comparison to his smile, so you have to turn back.

"Where are you taking me?" you ask again.

"I told you, Calleigh," he replies, sounding slightly annoyed. "It's a surprise."

"No, it's not! Just admit that you have no idea." Your little game is starting to rile you up, for _real_ rile you up, so you cross your arms over your chest. "Or better yet, just admit that I win."

"I am not admitting that, because that's not true." He almost pouts, which reminds you so much of how he used to be, and your anger dissipates again.

"I have my gun," you whisper, and even though it's in the luggage compartment of the bus, accessible only from the outside, your point is made.

"I thought you worked in law enforcement," he says with a mischievous smile.

You give him a confused look. "So?"

"So you should know that admittance of guilt at gunpoint is not admissible in court," he replies coolly. You glare at him, and finally he rolls his eyes and exaggerates a sigh. "You win," he mumbles.

"Thank you," you say politely, and you can't hold in your smile, because this is what you remember your relationship being, when the two of you were happiest.

You're not sure what has made you so talkative today, even though you would put your money on the kiss, but you're in a sharing mood, so you ramble.

"When I was younger and my father was actually sober, he would take my brothers and me on long road trips, mostly to fish or hunt, and we'd play this game, sort of like a scavenger hunt." You look at him, slightly self-conscious, but he waits for you to continue. "We would go through the alphabet in order, and at each letter, we'd look out the window and try to find something that started with that letter."

Eric chuckles. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were asking me to play this game."

You shake your head. "I'm not, but now that you mention it—"

"Calleigh," he interrupts. "how old are you?"

You smile, because you know where he's going with this, but you answer seriously anyway. "Two years and ten months older than you, why?"

"That makes both of us too old to play this game," he suggests, even though you know that he knows that this game will be played, regardless of age, regardless of what he does.

"So?"

"So nothing." He looks at you for a moment. "Automobile."

"What?"

"Automobile starts with A and I just saw one pass by outside," he replies matter-of-factly. "Do you have a point system, too?" he asks, and you can tell he is mocking you.

"You cheated," you accuse, ignoring his question. "Barn."

He scoffs. "You did not just see a barn."

"Yes, I did! There was one out the window on the other side," you reply, pointing toward the empty seats across the aisle.

"Fine, fine," he concedes. "What letter are we at now? C?"

You nod and look out the window, but for whatever reason, there are no cars in sight.

"Calleigh."

You turn to face him. "What?"

"No," he says with a chuckle. "Calleigh. I see a Calleigh."

You can't help but laugh. "It has to be _outside_."

He considers this for a moment. "Okay, Calleigh's reflection," he supplies, motioning toward the window beside you.

"How did you ever get your science degree?" you ask playfully.

He looks confused. "What are you talking about?"

"Physics, Eric," you explain. "A reflection is merely an image, so it can't actually be on the other side of the reflective surface."

"Hey, I majored in chemistry," he replies in defense.

"And I'm sure they ignored your F in Physics 101 because you were the star of the swim team," you say sarcastically.

He shrugs and plays along. "I've been told I was a pretty good right-fielder for the Hurricanes, too." He flinches when you slap him on the arm, but recovers enough to say, "Car," thus earning him another point.

Irritated now, you start the next two letters by naming 'Delko' and 'Eric' respectively. He teases you about your double standard rules, but you claim two glorious points to take the lead. The game continues in this way, and despite the minor tweaks you've made to the rules, the two of you are neck-and-neck by the time you reach the letter Q.

"You could not _possibly_ have seen a quarter on the side of the road, no matter how good your eyesight is," he complains.

"I saw something shiny," you reply defensively.

"Could be anything," he points out.

"No, it was a coin," you say stubbornly.

He smiles disbelievingly at you. "And how would you tell the difference between a quarter and a nickel?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Quarters are bigger," you reply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"I meant while the bus is going at sixty miles an hour," he says pointedly.

"Oh." You pause for a moment, before a huge smile spreads across your face. "I guess you'll just have to take my word for it."

He frowns. "I don't like this game anymore," he announces, sounding very much like a cranky five-year-old.

"You're just upset because you're losing," you reply with the same childish tone.

"I wouldn't be losing if you didn't cheat," he says pointedly.

You glare at him. "I'm not cheating!"

Each letter after that demands another mock argument about your questionable tactics, and before you reach T, both of you grow tired of the game, so you settle for the gentle silence that holds unspoken pledges and understood regrets. You keep your hand on his lap, he keeps his on your arm, and you lean into his shoulder again, assessing how _right_ it feels and how guilty that knowledge makes you feel.

He calls Horatio as the bus leaves the interstate, but you're too preoccupied with your own thoughts to catch much of the conversation, and before long, the Greyhound is pulling into the Miami station. You are grateful for finally being able to stand and stretch, and after you've gotten off the bus and collected your belongings from the luggage compartment, you take a moment to absorb the Miami sun.

Standing beside you, Eric smiles. "Ready?"

But he knows the answer, so he doesn't wait for your response, only presses a quick, reassuring kiss to your forehead and leads you away from the station.

The airport is close to the bus station, but not close enough to walk, so another cab brings you to the parking structure of Miami International, where Eric's car stays parked. But somewhere between the station and the airport, the spell is broken, and the tension returns. You sense that he can feel your discomfort, so he keeps his distance, and you hope he knows that it's not his touch that makes you cringe, but the upcoming meeting with abandoned friends.

When you reach his car, he drops your duffel in the back seat and walks around to the driver's side, leaving you to open the door yourself this time. You slide into the passenger's seat and clip on your seatbelt, ignoring the strange feeling of sitting in Eric's car. He has the same car as he did four years ago, but aside from minor wear patterns and a higher number on the dashboard, nothing has changed. The smell is the same. It smells distinctly _him_, maybe even more so than he does himself, and that in itself is a harsh reminder of how long you haven't been here. Not here in his car, but _here_ in Miami.

As he pulls out of the building, he clears his throat.

"Where do you plan on staying?"

And suddenly, you wish you hadn't severed all ties to Miami. If only you had kept Valera's number, or sent Natalia a few Christmas cards, you could have, and definitely _would_ have immediately named one of them. Your father had moved back to Louisiana shortly after you had relocated to Boston, as well. He always said that the only reason he ever moved to Miami was to be closer to you. You consider staying at a hotel, but you're not sure how long you can foot the costs, especially now that you're unemployed. You wonder if he's testing you, and somewhere deep down, you want him to urge you to stay with him. Accepting an offer is easier than asking for one.

Eric doesn't speak, doesn't ask if you've heard him, because he knows you have. He doesn't hassle you to respond, or repeat his question. He knows the ball's in your park now. You know this as well, but the silence drags on. When you finally break it, you settle for the safest route: indecision.

"I don't know."

He nods, as he reaches a red light, and drums the steering wheel absentmindedly with the pads of his thumbs. When the light turns green again, neither of you have spoken.

You still remember the streets of Miami fairly well, and even though you haven't asked him if he lives at the same place, you're pretty certain he does. If your intuition hasn't failed you, you know that three blocks from now, he'll have to turn right if he's headed home, and left if he's headed to the lab.

Two intersections later, he is forced out of silence by the looming decision.

"I have today off too, but if you want to go to the lab, I can drive you there now," he offers.

"Will you stay?" You look at him expectantly, but he's focused on driving. "When we get to the lab," you clarify.

He studies you for a brief moment, before returning his attention to the road. "Yeah."

And even though you're strong and independent, there's a certain comfort in knowing that you won't be alone when you see everyone again, and not everything will feel so foreign.

At the third intersection, he hesitates. "Do you mind if I drop by my place to change? I've been wearing the same clothes for almost two days, and I really need to shave," he says with a chuckle, running his fingers over his stubble.

You want to make a flirty comment about his unshaven face, but you stop yourself. "No, of course not, go ahead."

He takes a right turn and arrives in front of his apartment building a few minutes later. He finds a parking space and pulls his key from the ignition.

You're not sure how you'll handle being inside his apartment, as your hand reaches reluctantly for the buckle of your seatbelt. He senses your hesitation and reaches to stop you, his hand gentle around your wrist.

"You can stay in the car if you want. I'll only be a minute." He appears to want to say more, but doesn't.

You nod, withdrawing your arm. He opens the car door and slips out. Before he closes the door behind him, however, he hesitates. He leans down to look at you.

"Do you want me to bring your bag up?" he asks quietly.

And there, hidden between his carefully-phrased question, the offer you had been awaiting. Yet, you're not ready for the implications, and you don't think he is either. Too soon, too many messy emotions involved.

"Do you think that's a good idea?" you ask, stalling.

"I don't know." He pauses for a moment, before finally producing his cell phone from his pocket. He holds it out to you, and you sense defeat. "Call Valera or Natalia. I'm sure one of them can give you a place to stay." He looks away to hide his disappointment.

You take the phone from his hands. "Hey," you say softly, "when we're ready, okay?"

He nods and offers a weak smile, before closing the car door and making his way toward his apartment building. You watch him disappear behind the entrance. You flip open his phone and search through his address book for Valera's number. You press 'talk' and bring the phone to your ear.

After a few rings, Valera's voice comes over the receiver.

"Eric," she says, speaking as quickly as only Valera could. "Ryan told me you were with Calleigh. Is that true? Because he said not to call you, so I figure he's just playing a trick on me, right? But then I'm thinking, why would—"

"Valera," you interrupt, smiling at the sound of the familiar voice.

She recognizes your voice immediately and responds loudly. "Calleigh?! Oh my God, Calleigh. Are you—" She lowers her voice, apparently aware that she's sitting in the middle of the lab. "Are you in Miami?"

"Yeah, I'm here," you reply, nodding.

"Well, where are you staying?" she asks, her voice still holding a hint of disbelief.

You bite your lip. "That's actually why I'm calling."

"Say no more," she says immediately, and her warmth surprises you. "You remember where I live, right?"

"Yes. Thank you, Valera." In that moment, you are grateful that despite how abruptly you left, she is still treating you like a good friend.

"But you know, if you bring Eric around and start doing it on my couch, I'm kicking you out," she says. You laugh, a little embarrassed, and she seems to sense this, so she changes the subject quickly. "My shift ends in four hours, so you can come by then, or if you drop by the lab, I can give you my key."

"We're heading to the lab now, actually," you reply, noticing Eric reappearing from the building, wearing a new outfit, his face shaven.

"Great," Valera says, "I'll see you then."

When Eric climbs back into the car, you hand him back his phone, and he slips it back into his pocket. "So, you got a place to stay?"

"Yeah, Valera's offered me her couch." _Safer than yours_, you want to add, but you don't.

"That's good," he replies, even though you sense that he had hoped you wouldn't find anywhere else to stay. He looks at you with a poorly-concealed longing. "Ready to go?"

You nod, and he pulls onto the street and heads for the lab.

Not smooth sailing yet, but less bumpy than before, and that's all you can hope for. Small steps lead to large ones, or at least they add up to them, and you're going to follow yours.

Wherever they lead.


	9. Chapter 9: Eric

**Chapter 9: Eric**

Your lips are still burning when you pull into your parking space at the crime lab. You desperately want to kiss her again, but ever since the two of you left the bus station, she had seemed distant and preoccupied, so you had tried to give her some space. But you know that being distant is her way of covering up her nervousness, so you stop yourself from touching her more than what you deem absolutely necessary. You had been disappointed when she revealed that she wouldn't be staying at your apartment, but you grudgingly admit to yourself that it's for the best. You're not ready for that, for the implications of sleeping in the same apartment, because you know that inevitably, you wouldn't be able to stop yourself from moving to the bed if you take the couch, or the couch if you take the bed. You need this to be slow.

Standing just outside the Miami-Dade crime lab, Calleigh looks up at the building with an unreadable look on her face.

"Hey, you okay?" you ask, studying her carefully.

She nods, but reveals nothing. "Yeah. Let's go," she replies, her voice jammed in neutral.

You walk beside her, up the steps and through the door, into a building that over ten years, you have grown to love. Little has changed here in the past four, and you can tell that Calleigh recognizes her surroundings. You sense her uncertainty, so you give her a minute to compose herself.

The receptionist behind the counter notices you and smiles. "Officer Palmero, right?"

Even though you do not need to clear reception, you take a few steps toward her, and Calleigh follows. "No, Delko," you reply.

"Oh." She flips absentmindedly though a package of papers and turns to Calleigh. "I haven't seen you before."

"Calleigh Duquesne, Boston crime lab." She pulls out her badge, which she apparently hasn't returned yet, and shows it to her.

"Okay, here," the receptionist says, handing her a stack of papers. "Fill out this form so I can give you a temporary visitor's pass."

Calleigh gives you a strange look. You turn back to the receptionist. "She's a CSI," you say. When the girl stares dumbly at you, you sigh. "So she doesn't need a visitor's pass," you explain slowly.

"Are you sure about that?" she asks, fumbling through her documents, no doubt for a handbook.

"Yes," you reply impatiently, pulling Calleigh toward the elevators.

"Where on Earth do they find these people?" she asks once the two of you are no longer within earshot.

"I don't know." You smile. "She's new," you supply.

"Yeah, I figured that much," she replies with a soft chuckle.

Once in the elevator, Calleigh smiles at you. "So does this Palmero look anything like you?" she asks softly.

"I don't know," you reply with a short laugh. "I've never met him before. Probably works patrol."

"Well," she whispers, leaning in slightly, "if he looks anything like you, I'd be worried."

Her suggestive tone sends shivers down your spine. "Yeah? Why's that?" you manage, feeling your pulse quicken.

She smiles, but says nothing, which only gives way to your imagination.

Fortunately, the elevator reaches the second floor, and the two of you step out. Before you take two steps, however, a voice calls out to her.

"Calleigh."

She turns to the voice, and you follow her gaze. Horatio is standing a few feet away. The two of you approach him, and he acknowledges you with a nod.

"Eric," he greets.

"H," you reply.

Horatio turns back to Calleigh and smiles. "Welcome back."

"Thank you," she replies, smiling back.

"I don't mean to turn this reunion into a matter of business, but I spoke to your superior in Boston, and she tells me you resigned." Horatio looks at Calleigh expectantly.

"Yeah," she replies, nodding. You sense her hesitation. "I'm thinking of moving back here."

"Well, you know," he says slowly, "this lab always welcomes your services."

At that, she smiles, but her smile disappears quickly when she realizes that she's been here before. "What about—" She trails off and glances at you.

Horatio seems to understand. "You know what? Life is too short to waste time away from loved ones. Don't you agree?"

"What changed?" you demand, speaking a little too loudly. Horatio and Calleigh turn to look at you, neither looking surprise at your outburst, only uncomfortable. "Between now and four years ago?" you clarify, lowering your voice.

"I saw the effects first-hand," he replies simply, looking at you.

That angers you, for a million different reasons, but before you can say anything, Natalia notices Calleigh as she passes by the three of you, and her eyes widen.

"Calleigh?" she asks, her voice a squeak.

Calleigh smiles and approaches Natalia, who envelopes her in a warm hug. The two women become occupied with their own conversation, so you take this moment to speak to Horatio alone.

"I don't mean to be disrespectful, but why didn't you say something about this earlier? Why didn't you tell me you were okay with—" You swallow. "—us," you hiss.

"I—" He looks down and smiles tightly. "I was trying to protect you," he replies, looking up again.

"From what?" you ask, unable to keep the edge out of your voice.

"It was my understanding that Calleigh had moved on," he replies simply, too simply, and you can't help but think that he's acting too nonchalant about this.

"You kept in touch with her?" you ask incredulously.

"No, with her superior," he replies, "and she was convinced that Calleigh was doing well."

"I think that _Calleigh_ should've been the only one who could attest to that," you snap, not caring that he's your boss and that you'll probably regret this later.

Horatio takes a moment to respond. "You know what?" he says softly. "I agree, and I hope you will accept my sincerest apologies."

His apology softens you up and you run your fingers through your hair. "Yeah, I'm just glad she's here," you reply with a tired sigh.

"Okay," he says with a nod, "uh, Eric, I spoke to IAB."

"And?"

Horatio swallows. "And I don't think you're going to be able to avoid probation, but if we play our cards right, you'll only have to stay out of the field for a week or two," he replies, a little regretfully.

You look away and inhale sharply, but he's not finished.

"Here's what we're going to do," Horatio says. "Stetler will want to talk to you. Wait until I'm around before getting into an interrogation room with him. But when he does ask, answer honestly. I will cover the rest, okay, Eric?"

You nod and before you can truly grasp the severity of the situation, Calleigh reappears at your side. She notices your discomfort and looks at you questioningly, but Horatio clears his throat.

"Calleigh, so how about changing your resignation into a transfer?" he asks, trying to divert her immediate attention away from you.

She looks away from you reluctantly and smiles. "I'll need some time to think about this."

Horatio nods. "Take all the time you need," he replies, looking from Calleigh to you, then back to Calleigh. "Now, I'm sure you have a lot more people to see, so I won't be taking up any more of your time."

"Thanks, Horatio," she says with a soft smile. "It's nice seeing you again."

He returns her smile. "Always a pleasure," he replies and walks away.

Immediately, Calleigh turns to you. "What's going on?"

You lead her to a quiet corner, and she gives you a worried look. You sigh. "IAB's probably going to put me on probation."

She frowns. "Why?"

"For my little stunt at the airport," you reply dryly, a little disbelievingly.

"Eric, what exactly did you do?" she asks, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I don't know. I told some girl who worked there that I needed to access your flight info. I don't even really remember what I said to her." You sigh, suddenly feeling very tired. "Something along the lines of 'I'm a cop and I need to know where Calleigh Duquesne is headed before she makes evening news.'" You look at her expectantly, but she offers no reaction. "After she showed me everything, she probably figured out that either I was a fake or that you were dangerous, so I guess she alerted airport security."

She takes a moment to process this. "Am I in trouble?"

"I didn't even think to ask," you reply. "Sorry."

"It's okay," she says. "If it was serious, Horatio probably would've told us."

"Yeah." You take a deep breath and move your hand to her forearm. "I'm sorry I dragged you into this."

She rests her hands on your waistline, which makes you tighten your grip around her arm. She smiles. "Hey," she whispers, "this started because I didn't get on my flight to Miami."

You lean in involuntarily, until your body is a fraction of an inch from hers. She looks down, and her hands are pushing you away, so you pull back and clear your throat.

You chuckle nervously. "The ironic thing is that I could've forgone that step entirely. Talking to her was completely useless."

"Well, I don't think it does you any good to worry about it now," she replies, looking back up at you.

"Yeah, you're right," you say with a nod. You offer a weak smile. "So, where to next?"

"The M.E's office," she replies without hesitation.

"Okay, so why did we come upstairs?" you ask with a light chuckle.

"I don't know," she replies, her voice suddenly strained. Quietly, she heads back to the elevator. You follow close behind, unsure if you should point out her tension. You decide not to, because you're not sure she can explain it herself, so you keep quiet.

When she reaches the door to the medical examiner's office, she stops and looks at you. "I don't know how to explain everything to her," she admits quietly.

"Just tell her everything you told me," you say. She gives you a strange look, and you chuckle. "You know what I mean." You lean in and brush your lips against hers, innocent and reassuring. "It'll be okay."

She nods and takes a deep breath. Giving you another look, she pushes the door open and walks through.

Alexx is standing over a lifeless body, scalpel in hand. She looks up at the sound of the door opening.

"Calleigh? Is that you?" she asks, looking like she's just seen a ghost.

Beside you, Calleigh tenses up, and your hand finds the small of her back. She relaxes slightly at your touch and allows you to lead her toward the table behind which Alexx is standing. Alexx removes her gloves and tosses them aside, walking around the table to stand in front of Calleigh.

"Alexx, I—"

"Oh, Calleigh baby," Alexx whispers, bringing her hands up to cup Calleigh's cheeks. "I never thought I'd see you again."

"Alexx, I'm sorry I didn't say anything when I left. I just—"

"Don't worry about that now," Alexx interrupts. "Forgotten and forgiven." She pauses to take a good look at Calleigh. "I'd hug you, but I'm pretty sure John Doe here secreted _something_ on my nice, clean gown," she says, motioning toward the various stains littering her outfit. Then, she frowns. "Girl, what did you do to your hair?"

Calleigh smiles and runs her fingers through her hair. "You don't like it?"

"Well, you _know_ I can't tell you how long to keep your hair," Alexx replies.

"I'm growing it back, Alexx," Calleigh says with a soft laugh.

"Good girl." Alexx smiles. "How long are you going to be here?"

Calleigh takes a quick look at you. "Maybe indefinitely," she replies with a quick nod.

"Oh, that's great! Will you come to dinner this weekend?" Alexx asks. "To catch up." She looks past Calleigh at you. "Eric, you too." She raises an eyebrow and lowers her voice. "Did _you_ arrange this?"

"None of this was arranged," you reply, smiling, "but yeah, I guess you could say that."

Alexx nods. "I have to return to my post, but Calleigh, why don't you call me and we'll work out the details." She turns to you. "Eric, give the lady my number, will you?"

"Of course, Alexx," you reply.

Alexx gives Calleigh one final look before returning to her table. You and Calleigh leave the M.E.'s office, and Calleigh looks happier, much to your own delight.

Back in the elevator, you catch her eye.

"So Alexx's opinion trumps mine, huh?" you ask playfully.

She turns to look at you. "About what?"

"Your hair," you reply, smiling.

"Eric, I was going to grow it back anyway," she says, trying to hide her smile.

"Well, I like it like this," you reply stubbornly, reaching over to touch her hair.

"Why's that?" she asks, eyeing your hand dangerously.

"You look really pretty," you say quietly.

She looks away and smiles, but before she can respond, the elevator doors open and she steps out. "Let's go visit Valera."

You take a hold of her arm and pull her toward you. "You look really pretty," you repeat, resisting the urge to push her against a wall, lab techs be damned.

She smiles at you and leans in. "You can't sweet-talk me out of growing my hair out, Eric," she whispers, her voice low.

You swallow, unable to even think clearly, never mind make up a coherent reply. She smiles, satisfied by your reaction, and heads toward the labs.

You take a deep breath to clear your head, cursing the effect that she has on you. By the time you look up, she's already several steps ahead of you, so you take a few quick steps to catch up to her. You follow her all the way into the DNA lab.

"Valera?" she asks tentatively.

"Calleigh!" Valera stops what she's doing and removes her gloves. She moves toward Calleigh and pulls her into a light embrace. "I love your haircut!"

Calleigh smiles. "I'm growing it back."

"Don't!" Valera protests.

"That's what I keep telling her," you pipe up.

Calleigh smiles and throws you a dirty look. "Well, neither of you get to vote."

"She gave Alexx a vote," you inform Valera.

Valera gasps in mock hurt. "You wound me, Calleigh."

"That's because Alexx agrees with me," Calleigh replies.

"Democracy at its finest," Valera says sarcastically.

"The length of my hair is not up for debate," she complains.

You and Valera give each other knowing looks.

"Oh! Are you here for my key?" Valera asks suddenly, turning to Calleigh.

"No," Calleigh declines politely, "I'll wait around until your shift is over."

"Alright, well, why don't I call you when I'm done here?" Valera asks. "Actually, I don't have your number, but it's probably long distance, so I'll just call Eric."

"That would be great," Calleigh replies. She turns to you and smiles, and you can tell that she's no longer worried about how everyone else will react. "I'll see you later, Valera."

Valera nods. "And Calleigh?" She smiles warmly. "We really, really miss having you around."

"I really, really miss being around," Calleigh replies softly, and you sense that she means those words a lot more than she's letting on. Even though you're barely touching her, you know that she is tense and slightly uncomfortable.

"Hey, Valera, have you seen Ryan?" you ask, partly to bring her attention away from Calleigh and partly because you know that's who Calleigh will want to see next.

"He's out investigating a homicide in the Gables, I think," Valera replies, pulling out another pair of gloves and slipping them on. "He's been gone a while. Should be back soon."

"Alright, thanks. We'll, uh, we'll leave you with your blood samples now," you say teasingly.

"Ugh, don't even remind me," Valera mumbles, rolling her eyes and turning her attention back to the centrifuge.

Calleigh follows you out of the DNA lab, and immediately, you notice Rick Stetler, talking to two other men clothed in suits. He notices you too, and excuses himself from his company.

"How does he still work here?" Calleigh asks under her breath, watching Stetler approaching.

"I don't know, but I have a feeling he's waiting for me," you reply, trying to keep your voice down. You turn to her. "Hey, will you be alright by yourself?"

She nods. "Yeah, go ahead, Eric. I have to call my Dad anyway."

"Okay, I'll catch up with you later," you say quickly.

Calleigh leaves, heading away from Stetler. He either doesn't recognize her or chooses not to acknowledge her presence at the lab, and for that, you are glad. The last thing you need is Stetler getting on Calleigh's case.

"Officer Delko," he says, acting too arrogant for your liking. "Enjoyed your trip?"

You sigh. "What do you want, Stetler?"

"I want to know where you were yesterday morning, 5 a.m.," he replies.

You recall what Horatio had told you before, so you stall. "Did you talk to Lieutenant Caine?" you ask.

"I'm talking to you," he replies pointedly.

"Well, I have nothing to say," you reply, turning around to leave.

"I suggest you answer my questions, Delko," he says threateningly. "Where were you yesterday at five in the morning?"

You sigh, turning back to face him. You open your mouth to reply, but a voice behind you stops you. "Eric, don't answer that." You are surprised to see Horatio standing close by. He approaches you and Stetler.

Stetler glares at Horatio. "I have every right to question this officer, Horatio," he says, anger evident.

"No doubt you do, Rick, but as I told you earlier, nobody got hurt and I am dealing with the situation," Horatio replies.

Stetler scoffs. "This is _my_ investigation."

"Yes, and you are in _my_ lab. I assume we're done listing the obvious," Horatio replies coolly.

"I don't need your _permission_ to interrogate an officer," Stetler growls back.

Horatio ignores him. "I have a question for you, Rick. Don't you have more serious matters to deal with? I heard there was a police-involved shooting down in Biscayne Park. Shouldn't you be investigating _that_ instead?"

"You don't think the abuse of an officer's badge is serious?" Stetler asks incredulously, almost mockingly.

"There were extenuating circumstances," Horatio replies.

"And you expect me to believe that," Stetler states flatly.

"Do not turn this into a matter of personal vendetta, Rick, because you are going to regret that," Horatio warns.

"This has nothing to do with you."

"And you," Horatio says slowly, echoing Stetler's words from moments ago, "expect me to believe that."

"Either way, I am questioning Eric Delko right now, and even you, _Lieutenant_, can't do anything about it." Rick turns to you. "Delko, come with me." You turn to Horatio; he nods at you. You sigh, turning to follow Stetler into an interrogation room. Horatio tags along.

Once there, you sit down at the table and Stetler takes a seat across from you. Horatio opts to stand next to the window. The whole thing makes you feel uncomfortable and beyond guilty.

Stetler clears his throat and takes out a small tape recorder. He places it on the table in front of you and presses the record button. "Now, where were you yesterday morning, at 5 a.m.?"

"Morrisville, North Carolina," you reply, tapping your fingers against the table.

"Could you be more specific?" he asks, leaning back in his chair.

"Raleigh-Durham International," you reply.

"Which is a what?" he asks, tilting his head.

"An airport, Stetler," you reply impatiently. "Might want to check an atlas out of your local library." Behind you, Horatio lets out a soft chuckle.

Stetler smiles sourly and points to the tape recorder. "Did you speak to this woman?" he asks, placing a photo of the girl at the airport in front of you.

"Yes."

"Did you tell her that you were a cop?"

"Yes," you repeat, growing impatient.

"She says that you asked her to check travel records for a woman named Calleigh Duquesne." He pauses then and purses his lips. "Hmm, that name sounds familiar," he taunts.

"Get to the point, Rick," Horatio interjects.

Stetler glares at Horatio, but he's looking out the window, so he turns back to you. "Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Well, why?" he asks, furrowing his brows.

"Why what?" you ask, stalling.

"Why did you ask for Ms. Duquesne's flight information?" he elaborates slowly.

You sigh. "Because I was looking for her."

"And why were you looking for Ms. Duquesne?" he asks with the cockiness you have learned to despise.

"She called me and told me that she was at the airport," you reply. "I went to pick her up."

"You went all the way to Raleigh to pick her up?" he asks, almost sardonically.

"Yes, that's what I just said," you say through your teeth. You have to stop yourself from leaping across the table and tightening your fingers around his throat.

He leans in and props his chin up with his arms. "Now why would you do that?" he asks.

"Because I wanted to."

"You know," he says, gesticulating in the air, "if a colleague of mine were seven hundred miles away, I don't think I'd fly over there and pick him or her up."

"We're not colleagues; we're friends. Doubt you'd know anything about that though," you reply, pleased with yourself.

"Don't get smart with me, Delko," he snaps, shooting out of his chair. "Friend or not, it still doesn't explain why you used your badge to get flight information. So why don't you stop fucking—" Stetler takes a deep breath, but when he speaks again, he doesn't sound any more composed than before. "Stop messing around and answer my questions without any of those snippy remarks."

Horatio pipes up. "Rick, you are bordering on maliciousness, and for that, I can request that another agent head this investigation." He smiles. "And guess what? I'm going to do just that. Eric, let's get out of here."

Stetler looks like he's just been handed a bag of maggots, and you have to bite down on your tongue to stop yourself from laughing out loud. He grabs his tape recorder and points at Horatio.

"We are not done," he threatens, his teeth clenched. He storms out of the room.

You turn to Horatio, who has moved to stand beside you. "H, you're a genius," you say. "How did you know he was going to snap like that?"

He looks at you and chuckles. "I happen to know about a certain romantic disappointment that he's recently undergone."

"Ah," you reply, nodding knowingly. "so I guess I got lucky."

Horatio looks at you and turns serious. "But Eric," he says, "you are still looking at probation. I'll keep you posted."

You take a deep breath. "Okay, thanks, H," you reply. "I, uh, I'm going to go find Calleigh."

He nods, and you leave the interrogation room. You fish for your phone, but before you can dial Calleigh's number, she calls you. You pick up immediately, only realizing as an afterthought that it must have seemed too eager.

"Hey, I was just about to call you," you greet, and even before she says anything, a soothing feeling cascades over you.

"Hey, Eric," she says quietly, and you detect a concealed melancholy in the tone of her voice.

"Calleigh, where are you?" you ask, even though what you really want to ask is 'what's wrong?' But you know that she hates it when people ask that, and you doubt that she would answer you over the phone anyway.

"Outside," she replies, her voice slightly shaky. "In the parking lot, leaning against your car."

"I'll be right there," you say. You hang up, pushing yourself through the hallways. You pick up a slow jog, ignoring the disapproving looks people are throwing you. Moments later, you find Calleigh exactly where she had described.

"Hey, is everything okay?" you ask upon arrival.

She looks up at you distractedly, as if surprised that you're standing there. "Yeah, how—" She clears her throat, suddenly aware of how coarse her voice sounds. "How did your chat with Stetler go? I saw him leave; that's why I called."

"He's off my investigation," you reply, studying her carefully.

"Really? Why?" she asks, sounding as distracted as she looks.

"H and I pissed him off pretty badly, and he just _snapped_," you say with a light chuckle.

She nods, but her reaction tells you that she hasn't really heard you or processed what you've said.

"Calleigh," you say gently, moving your hand to her cheek.

She sighs and leans into your touch. "Sorry." She looks at you but quickly looks away. "I just got off the phone with my Dad."

"How is he?" you ask, but she chuckles mirthlessly, tensing up. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not tonight," she whispers, closing her eyes. "Please."

"Okay," you hear yourself saying, even though your worry levels are off the charts. "Rain check?"

"Rain check," she agrees, snaking her arms around your waist and pulling you closer. She breathes into your chest and relaxes a little. She looks up at you. "Are you taking me out to dinner?"

"Of course," you reply, planting a kiss on the corner of her mouth.

Someone nearby clears their throat. You turn to see Ryan standing there a little awkwardly, rolling on the balls of his feet. Calleigh pushes you away and stands up straight. She gives you another quick push, before approaching Ryan.

"Hey! Calleigh," he greets, sticking his hands into his pockets. "Wow, you look great."

You approach Calleigh from behind. "Long hair or short hair?" you ask Ryan, using this as another opportunity to touch her hair.

"Long," he replies, and Calleigh beams. "Did I just make someone lose money or something?"

"No," Calleigh replies. She gives you a pointed look. "Dignity, maybe."

You chuckle. "Whatever, Calleigh. Valera agreed with me."

"Valera agreed with you?" Ryan asks, suddenly interested.

"Calleigh is sleeping on her couch tonight," you tease, knowing that'll have its proper effect on Ryan.

His eyes widen. "Valera's couch?" he sputters.

Calleigh looks confused. "What's going on?"

"Ryan, here, is—"

"Shut up, man," Ryan interrupts, raising his voice and sounding like he would very much want to off himself.

You turn to Calleigh. "I'd tell you later, but I think you've already figured it out."

She smiles knowingly. "Don't worry, Ryan, my lips are sealed."

"I don't… like her, okay?" He sighs in frustration.

Suddenly, your phone rings, and caller ID says Valera, so you hold it in front of Ryan tauntingly for a moment before handing the phone to Calleigh. She gives you a disapproving look, but brings the phone to her ear and walks away from the two of you.

"What was that about?" he demands once she's out of hearing range.

You shrug, trying not to laugh. "You have a crush. I thought Calleigh should know."

"Are we in junior high?" he asks in disbelief. "I do _not_ have a _crush_."

"Okay, not that I care either way," you reply indifferently.

"You—"

"Valera's finished her shift," Calleigh announces, cutting Ryan off. She walks back and returns your phone to you. "She's going to meet us here."

"I'd better go, then," Ryan says, still sending death glares your way.

"We'll catch up with you later, Ryan." She hesitates a moment, before stepping forward and wrapping her arms around him. He struggles awkwardly with his hands, still in his pockets, but manages to return the hug.

It's a little uncomfortable for you to watch, so you look around restlessly and scratch the back of your neck. Thankfully, the embrace doesn't last long, and Ryan leaves quickly.

Almost as soon as he leaves, Valera appears next to you. She motions toward the entrance of the lab. "I just saw Ryan. Is he okay?"

"Yeah, he's just really caught up in something," you reply.

"O—kay," Valera says slowly. She turns to Calleigh. "Let's go."

Calleigh makes no effort to move. "I'll just be a minute," she says.

Valera gives her a strange look, and nearly half a minute passes before she realizes what Calleigh had meant. "Oh! Alone, gotcha. My car's right down there." She points vaguely toward the other end of the parking lot, then heads in that direction.

"Thanks, Valera," Calleigh calls out after her.

You take a step toward Calleigh, and she leans in again. You hold on to her tightly. You don't want to be away from her for several hours, and you sense that she feels the same way. At least she'll have Valera to distract her. You will have the lonely silence of your apartment, perfect for contemplation, the last thing you want. Your mind has been running on turbo, and you're scared that as soon as you let it return to normal, it'll shut down. Looking at her, smelling the subtle aroma of lavender that emanates from her, stroking her soft skin, it reminds you of what you're fighting for. When you can't fill your senses with her, it's a different story.

"I'll pick you up at six-thirty, okay?" you say softly.

"Yeah," she replies with a quick nod.

You lean in and place a gentle kiss on her lips. It's chaste and not enough for either of you, but you leave it at that, because you can still see Valera from the corner of your eye, and you're not sure if that's enough to stop you from going too far.

"I should go," you whisper, but you make no attempt to release her.

She doesn't say anything, only leans in for another kiss. It's anything but chaste this time, as she moves her hands up to stroke the nape of your neck. Her lips are teasing but urgent, and you taste euphoric sweetness on them. Her tongue touches yours, and she sighs, almost inaudibly, so that you feel it rather than hear it. Your hands move to hold her hips in place, but she grinds them against yours, which elicits a groan from you.

You know that if you do not stop now, you will not get another chance, so you pull away and rest your forehead on hers. Her breathing is erratic and hot on your chin.

"I should _really_ go," you breathe.

She nods against your forehead. "Six-thirty. Don't be late," she whispers.

"I wouldn't dream of it," you reply, reluctantly pulling yourself from her.

She walks over to Valera, who is standing there with a goofy grin across her face. You can't make out what they're saying, but you can only imagine what Valera's twisted mind can think up.

Before disappearing behind a row of cars, Calleigh turns around and smiles.

You commit her smile to memory, because that's the only thing you have to pace your thoughts for the next two and a half hours.


	10. Chapter 10: Calleigh

**Chapter 10: Calleigh**

"Jesus, you guys are making out like four years didn't pass," Valera says the moment you approach her in the parking lot.

You smile. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder, I guess."

"I'm going to make my next boyfriend move to France for a year or two," she says thoughtfully.

"You know what they say about French girls, though," you reply, stealing a quick glance in Eric's direction. He's still standing there, looking a little dependent. You smile; he sees this and smiles back.

"Yeah, but still, could you imagine the reunion sex?" Valera stops in front of her car and unlocks the doors with her remote. You walk around the car to the passenger's side. Over the car, Valera gasps. "Oh my God, Calleigh. How was it?"

You open the door and slide into your seat to hide the flush creeping up your cheeks, trying unsuccessfully to drive inappropriate images out of your head.

The door on the driver's side opens as well, and Valera slips in. She rolls her eyes and fiddles with her key. "Come on, Calleigh. On a scale from one to ten, where one is like 'yikes, where did your libido go?' and ten is like 'holy shit, disappear for another four years and do that to me again.'"

"Valera!" You look away and smile. "I don't go falling into bed with people I've met less than forty-eight hours ago."

"You've known Eric half your life," she exaggerates, pulling out of the parking lot.

You bite your lip and don't say anything, because mention of time where Eric is concerned has been difficult on you for the past days, months, years, or however long you've hurt him.

Valera seems to sense your discomfort, so she leaves you to your thoughts for the remainder of the car ride. She lives very close to the lab, however, and soon, she pulls up to her apartment. It's only then that you realize you're carrying nothing. You check the back seat, almost as if expecting your duffel to be there even though you distinctly remember never carrying it to her car.

"Something wrong?" Valera asks, following your gaze to her back seat.

"I left my bag in Eric's car," you reply, sighing.

"Oh, well, call him and tell him to bring it over," she says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"He's taking me out to dinner later," you reply softly.

She gives you a strange look. "That's perfect. He can drop it off then."

You look at her and frown. "No, I need to shower and change before then."

"Calleigh, I'm sure he wouldn't mind waiting a little while when he gets here," she replies. "Eric and I are friends, you know."

"I know, I just—"

"You want to be all dolled up and ready for him when he arrives," she supplies.

"No!" You watch her roll her eyes. "Maybe," you confess, "but there's nothing wrong with that."

"Call him now," she suggests. "I'm sure he's not too far from the lab yet."

You nod and take out your phone. You dial his number manually, instead of using speed dial, because Valera is close enough to tell the difference, and you do not want her hassling you about that.

"I left my stuff in your car," you say as soon as he picks up, forgoing any kind of greeting.

"I know," he replies calmly.

You laugh, relaxing at the sound of his voice. "You planned this."

He chuckles in response. "No, Calleigh. Now I know what they meant when they said that no good deed goes unpunished." He pauses. "I'm on my way over."

"Right now?"

"No, three days from now," he replies sarcastically. You can almost see him smiling at the other end. "I'll be there in five."

"Alright, see you then," you say, hanging up.

Valera is smirking when you look up. "You act so different when you're talking to him," she teases, opening her car door.

You do the same and step out. "I do not," you deny.

Shrugging playfully, she slides out, and the two car doors close at the same time. She locks the doors, and the car beeps in response.

"Maybe I just sound different when I'm talking on the phone," you muse, following her into her building.

"Uh, no," she replies, raising an eyebrow. "I just talked to you on the phone before, and believe me, you did not sound _anything_ like that."

You smile, deciding that it's time to change the topic. "Eric's coming by to drop off my bag."

"He probably just wanted an excuse to see you," she replies, leading you to her door. She takes out her key and pushes the door open. She walks in, dropping her purse and keys on a nearby table. She takes off her shoes; you do the same.

You follow close behind, to a living room that you vaguely remember. She's changed around her furnishings and repainted her walls. You wonder for a moment how the building super ever let her, but it's a nice, neutral shade, and you can't help but like how she's redecorated her living space.

"Do you want something to drink?" she asks, heading to the kitchen.

Before you can answer, there's a knock at the door. You turn to walk to it so you can let Eric in, but Valera races past you. "No, you stay there," she directs. "I don't want any PDA in the middle of my apartment."

You gawk at her, but you can tell that she's serious, so you obey, staying a safe distance from the door, although making sure you have a clear view.

Valera opens the door, just enough for you to see Eric standing there, holding your bag.

"Hey, is Calleigh around?" he asks, looking past her. He sees you and smiles, pushing the door to open it a little more and taking a step into Valera's apartment.

She stops him. "No, you come back when it's time for you to really pick her up," she says adamantly, reaching to take the bag from him.

He moves the bag away from her and stares at her for a moment, as if trying to decipher her. "Valera, are you kidding me?"

"Dead serious," she replies.

He tries to push his way in, but Valera stands her ground. He laughs. "I just want to talk to her."

"You can talk to her from here," she replies simply.

He turns to you, hysterical. "Did you put her up to this?" he asks, still trying to push Valera aside.

"I had nothing to do with this," you reply, smiling.

"Well, can you come here, then?" he asks you, eyeing Valera suspiciously.

You take a step toward him, drawn by his voice, but Valera holds out a hand. "Stay there," she commands.

You can't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. You and Eric, separated by a resolute Valera, hands held out, stance ninja-like.

You walk up to her and place a hand on her shoulder. "Valera, seriously. We do have _some_ semblance of self control."

She gives you a skeptical look, but finally gives in. "Alright, but outside," she says, ushering you out. She reaches for your bag again, and this time, he willingly hands it to her. She rolls her eyes and closes the door.

He takes a good look at you and smiles. "This is kind of pathetic, but I missed you," he confesses, trailing his finger up your arm.

You shiver. "It's not pathetic," you reply, reaching up to his lips. You breathe a sigh of relief at the contact. "I missed you, too."

"It was barely half an hour," he points out, laughing.

You smile, kissing him softly again. "I don't know what I'm going to do tonight without you," you breathe. Your need for him scares you, and you wonder how you ever made it four years without his touch. But it's easy to fall back into a familiar routine.

"Come stay with me," he replies, sounding dangerously serious.

"Eric," you say softly, alarm bells setting off in your head.

"I know, I know." He sighs and brings your hand up to his face, brushing his lips lightly over your knuckles. "When we're ready."

You smile and nod. "I can't believe you used my bag as a bargaining chip," you say, changing the subject.

He chuckles. "I didn't do it on purpose, if that's what you're insinuating," he replies, absentmindedly drawing circles on your arm with his fingertips.

"I don't believe you," you say simply.

He tries to look hurt. "Aren't you even a little glad I'm here?"

"Of course," you reply, "but a little less if you lied to get here."

He smiles. "I really didn't notice that you didn't have your bag," he rehashes. He leans in, lowering his voice. "I was too busy noticing how beautiful you looked."

And even though he has a stupid little grin tugging at his lips, even though you want to punch him for being so cheesy, you have to smile. "You can't use that line for another month," you say coyly.

He laughs. "I won't," he promises.

"You should go. I still have to shower and change," you say, pressing another kiss to his lips.

"You don't have to get dressed up for me, Calleigh," he replies playfully.

You glare at him. "It would be really unfortunate if you were to show up to our date with your face rearranged," you warn, as threateningly as you can muster.

"Fine, I'm leaving," he says, laughing. "I'll be back at six-thirty with Kevlar."

You smile and lean in for one more kiss. A little longer, this time, a little more exploration, tasting tongue and teeth and familiar warmth. By the time he pulls away ands heads for the exit, you are too lightheaded to even call out a goodbye.

You take a moment to catch your breath, before opening Valera's door and reentering. You find her on the couch watching Oprah, your bag at her feet. It's so unlike her that you almost laugh, but nothing about Valera surprises you anymore. You take a seat next to her and point at the television.

"Oprah?"

"Yeah, the woman's a genius," she replies, never looking away from the screen.

You watch for a moment, but they're talking about survivors of domestic abuse, and you see enough of that on the job, so you stand and pick up your bag. "I'm going to take a shower," you announce.

"Okay," she replies.

You walk toward her bathroom, hands digging through your bag for a presentable outfit. Your arm brushes against velvet, and you realize that you still have the watch that you had bought at the airport. You make a mental note to give it to him later.

You smile when your hand reaches a little black number that you had, for whatever reason, thrown into your duffel when you had been packing. You pull it out, running your fingers over the material, cheeks heating up at the thought of his reaction. Normally, you don't even like wearing dresses. They don't look good with gun holsters. You only dresses them at celebrations that require them, and even then, reluctantly, but tonight is a special occasion, you decide. Besides, 'normal' is the last word you'd use to describe your relationship.

You shower quickly, mind wandering where it shouldn't. When you step out of the stall, you take your time dressing, blow-drying your hair, applying light makeup. You take a moment to examine the result of your efforts in the mirror. You don't even remember why you had bought the dress, because it's too low-cut for your tastes, but you do have to admit – modestly, might you add – that you look pretty good in it.

You walk slowly, a little anxiously, back to the living room, where Valera is still watching television. You clear your throat.

"Did you know that Oprah had a gay half-brother?" she asks without looking up.

"Valera."

She turns to look at you. Her jaw hits the floor. "Oh, my God, Calleigh. You have boobs!"

You laugh, shifting uncomfortably under her scrutiny. You pull at the dress nervously, tugging the straps, adjusting the waist.

"No, don't do that," she says, standing up. She walks over and looks you up and down. The girl certainly wasn't shy. "Jesus, you are _so_ getting laid tonight."

"In that case, I am going to change out of this _right now_," you reply, turning toward the bathroom.

She grabs your wrist to stop you. "No!" She smiles. "Seriously, keep this on. It's going to drive him crazy."

"I don't want to drive him crazy!" You continue pulling uncomfortably at the dress. "I just want to look nice."

She gives you a skeptical look. "Bullshit."

"I'm serious, Valera. This is the only dress I brought," you reply, frowning slightly.

"Calleigh, you wouldn't have brought this dress if you didn't plan to wear it," she reasons. "Now, come. Sit." She leads you to the couch and forces you to sit down next to her. She picks up the remote and turns off the TV. "We haven't even had a chance to really talk yet."

"Okay, so what have you been up to since I left?" you ask.

"Uh-uh," she replies, shaking her head. "We're talking about you."

"There's not much to talk about, then," you say, laughing softly.

"How about the fact that Eric went across the country to get you?" she asks. "That's totally romantic, by the way."

"It wasn't romantic," you reply.

She gives you an unconvincing look. "It's at least a little romantic."

"Maybe the gesture," you reply, "but seeing him there? Not romantic."

She winces. "Oh, awkward?"

You chuckle. "Very."

"Still, he went all the way to Boston to get you," she points out. "Hello, romantic!"

You look at her for a moment. "I was in Raleigh, actually."

"You transferred to Raleigh?" she asked, confused.

"No," you reply, shaking your head. "I was supposed to catch a connecting flight to Miami."

"Oh, you guys met halfway!" she coos. "That is adorable."

"Valera, none of this is _adorable_," you admonish. "I'm on the hugest emotional roller coaster of my life."

"But did you see the way he kissed you, Calleigh?" she asks, wide-eyed.

"Yeah, I was there," you reply, laughing to cover your embarrassment.

"Well, who the hell cares about riding the roller coaster?" she asks. "Vomit in the nearest garbage can like everyone else."

You give her a strange look. "I don't think your metaphor makes sense," you say slowly, laughing.

"Of course it does! Look, the roller coaster is obviously your oh-so-complex relationship with Eric, the vomit is all the emotional baggage, and the garbage can is—" She trails off and frowns. "Okay, so this metaphor sucks, because somehow I end up being the garbage can." She doesn't notice your stifled laugh. "I could be a really high-end garbage can," she continues, oblivious. "Like you know, made of gold or something. I'm sure Oprah has golden garbage cans."

"Valera," you interrupt, unable to hold in your laughter anymore.

"What?"

"Thank you for being you," you say, smiling.

She frowns. "Is that a good thing? Because Ryan says stuff like that to me all the time, usually when he wants me to process fifty blood samples in ten minutes."

You laugh softly. "Well, I don't know about him, but I mean it in a good way."

She smiles. "But my metaphor makes sense, right? I mean, I'm here, if you need to talk. I know that around the lab, people think I'm a kooky lab tech with an addiction to hair dye, but I can be serious."

"I know, Valera," you reply. "Thank you."

She beams. "So did you guys work out your issues? Smooth out the kinks?" she asks.

"We're taking it one day at a time," you reply carefully, because you know that four years of pent-up emotions do not resolve over a day and a half.

"I'm really glad you're here," she offers, smiling. "I haven't seen Eric laugh like that in forever."

"How was he when—" You swallow, rephrasing the question in your head. "How was he after I left?"

She looks down sympathetically. "For six months, he was hell."

You know that you shouldn't ask, because it'll only hurt you to know, but you can't help yourself; curiosity has always been part of your nature. "How do you mean?"

She looks at you for a moment. "Are you sure you want to hear about this?"

"Yeah," you reply, nodding.

She sighs. "For a while, he didn't say much, just drank a lot. We tried to keep him busy with other stuff, you know, but after shift, he would sometimes go to bars and run up a tab." She looks at you expectantly. "His drinking didn't interfere with his work, though," she reassures quickly. "He showed up every morning as sober as the next guy."

You absorb everything she tells you with an aching heart. It's too late to tell her to stop, because you're addicted to the knowledge. You can't help but wonder if he ever went to the same bar that your father frequented, if they'd ever met there, vision blurred, speech slurred, inebriated beyond recognition.

"Then, he started seeing this girl," Valera continues, looking like it's the last thing she wants to talk to you about. "She was actually really nice. Decent, you know? She looked a lot like you. But he was—" She pauses, studying your reaction. "Well, he just wasn't ready. He never got over you. That's pretty much what killed all his other relationships."

You feel an oncoming wave of guilt, because you know that you made him that way, made him unhappy when you selfishly left, then hid behind reasons that appeared the exact opposite.

"At one point, I think that he was—" She stops talking then, and looks you in the eye. "Calleigh, listen, some of this is really just speculation on the part of Cooper and me. I mean, we don't have hard facts to back it up, and I don't think it would be fair to pass it off as truth." But you can tell that she's only saying this to soften the impact.

"Valera, what did you think he was doing?" you ask sternly.

She appears uncomfortable for a moment. "You won't like it," she says, stalling. When you look at her impatiently, she sighs. "Okay, I think he's been toothing again," she reveals, quietly, like she's divulging a secret.

You swallow, your heart beating rapidly. "How recently?" you ask, even though you've already gone too far, know too much. Your voice is as shaky as you feel. You don't try very hard to hide it from Valera, because that's too tiring, and all your energy is spent on processing how and why he would do this again, especially after the trouble he got into last time, after he _promised_ he wouldn't.

"Oh, Calleigh." She rests her hand on your arm. "I shouldn't have brought this up."

"Valera, I can handle it," you say sharply. You can't, and your mind is screaming that fact at you in big, glittery lettering, embroidered with lace, framed in dark mahogany. It sounds more elegant than it actually is, but it's very, very clear: You can't handle it. You're shaking.

"Calleigh."

"How. Recent," you ask again, with the quiet determination that's always been your signature.

She looks at you for a long time. "Just, recent," she replies, shrugging. She sighs again and takes a deep breath. "He was doing alright, for a long time. Then, about a month ago, something changed. It was like he relapsed. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I just need some time to process this," you reply, trying to keep your emotions in check. You're not sure why you're so upset about this, but it's more devastating than finding out about his first time. It's taken you by surprise, and you wonder if this even comes close to how he had felt when you told him that you were moving to Boston.

Valera pulls you into a friendly embrace, rubbing your back comfortingly. "Talk to him," she suggests. "You'll work it out."

You pull back and smile faintly. "I hope so."

"I'll tell you what," she says. "Stop thinking about it, okay? We'll lounge around until he gets here." She stands up. "Want ice cream?"

"I could use some ice cream," you reply with a chuckle.

While Valera is getting you a scoop of mint chocolate chip, you dig your purse out of your duffel, dropping the box with the watch you had bought into it. You drop your purse near the door. That's when you notice Valera's shoes, lined neatly against the wall.

"Valera?" you call out toward her direction.

She returns with two bowls of ice cream and hands one to you. "Yeah?"

"I don't have shoes," you say, pointing at hers.

She stares at you strangely. "What?"

"I don't have shoes," you repeat. "I didn't bring a pair of nice shoes."

"Oh, um, here, I might have something," she replies, reaching down to produce a pair of heeled sandals.

They look surprisingly comfortable, so you take them from her. Handing Valera back the bowl of ice cream, you strap on her shoes. They fit, which is unexpected because of her height. You take a quick glimpse at her bare feet, and you notice for the first time that they are disproportionately small.

She admires them for a moment, a bowl in each hand. "They look nice," she notes.

"They're comfy, too," you reply, unstrapping them and placing them next to your own shoes.

"Take them for the night," she offers, handing you back your ice cream and heading back to the living room.

You follow her there, digging into your ice cream. The Miami heat has made it slightly melty, but it's still good. You sit back down next to Valera on the couch and prop your legs up on the coffee table. Not very lady-like, you decide, but neither is licking melty ice cream off a cool steel spoon.

Valera starts talking about recent cases, and you know she's doing it to take your mind off everything you've learned about the four years of his life that you've missed, but although mysterious cases have always intrigued you, it's difficult to concentrate on what she's saying. She notices this but doesn't give up. She moves to other topics, but you can barely make out if she's talking about sex or the latest computer upgrades. You're thankful for her voice though, because you're not sure you can handle being alone right now.

Over an hour later, ice cream long-ago finished, the doorbell rings.

You stand, a little more suddenly than you had expect to, a little more eagerly than you had wanted to appear. Valera stands as well and places her hands on your arms, turning you to face her.

"Calleigh, just, I don't know." She sighs. "Try to be understanding."

"I will," you reply, smiling tightly. "It'll be okay," you add.

She nods and watches you head to the door. You slip on her sandals and pick up your purse, before opening the door.

"Hey," you greet quietly.

"Hey, ready to—" He swallows, running his eyes down your body. He clears his throat. "Ready to go?" he asks, his voice husky.

You nod, slipping through the door and closing it behind you. He's wearing an outfit that he normally saves for court. Dress up or dress down, the man always looked _good_. He moves his hands to your waist and leans in to kiss you, but despite how much you want him to, you stop him.

"Eric, I just need to get one thing clear first."

He looks confused. "Okay," he replies, motioning for you to continue.

"I just found out from Valera that you've _recently_ been toothing," you say, unable to raise your voice higher than a whisper.

He swallows hard. "Calleigh—"

"Why did you do it?" you ask, but it sounds more like a desperate plea for a magical answer that makes it right again, makes the whole thing disappear.

He sighs, dropping his hands to his side. "I don't know. I was being stupid."

You cross your arms over your chest. "Not good enough."

A flash of pain appears in his eyes. "What do you want me to tell you?" he hisses. "Do you want me to tell you that I'm proud of it? I'm not. Do you want me to tell you that I was thinking of you the whole time? I was."

"Eric—"

"Calleigh, it's not about the sex. It's not some perversion or sexual deviance that I _enjoy_," he spits, closing his eyes briefly. "It's about filling the void. I felt so _empty_; I couldn't take it anymore." He opens his eyes again, looks at you with an apologetic sadness.

You swallow, looking away. You can't handle his eyes. "You promised me you would never do it again," you murmur.

He chuckles bitterly. "And you promised me that we had time on our hands," he replies quietly. He waits for you to look up at him before continuing. "I'm sorry if you're disappointed in my decisions, but the weight on my shoulders was suffocating. Momentary release, that's all it was." He sighs. "Are we okay?"

You stare deep into his eyes. The sincerity there is overwhelming. "We're okay," you reply, leaning in.

He takes a shaky breath and pulls you toward him. You reach up to kiss him gently, and even through his lips, you can tell that you've hurt him with your blunt accusation. You run your tongue over his lips, quietly requesting access, which he duly grants. You keep your touches light and feathery, and he groans in response.

When you pull away, you bring your hands up to cup his cheeks. "I hope this isn't going to ruin our evening," you whisper, pressing another kiss to his lips, quicker this time.

"Nothing could ruin a night when you're wearing _that_," he replies coyly. His eyes are looking you up and down again, and this thrills you, heats you to the core.

"I'm ready to go," you tell him.

He smiles and holds out his hand.

Ready, set, go.


	11. Chapter 11: Eric

**Chapter 11: Eric**

You're pretty sure you've never felt this giddy to be holding a girl's hand, not even when you were a rather lanky twelve-year-old. It's a little embarrassing for you to feel so juvenile about hand-holding, but the feeling that accompanies it is well worth your time.

You're still reeling slightly from her accusation. In that moment, you had felt so inadequate and weak, but at least she doesn't look angry or tense anymore. You had been surprised that Valera knew, but then again, it _is_ Valera; she knows everything about everyone. Still, you had been scared that the evening would start off on the wrong foot, but you quickly dismissed that idea. You had waited too long for this. Besides, the woman standing next to you is Calleigh. Nothing could ruin that.

You had forgotten how glamorous she could look when she dressed up. She's beautiful every day, but there's an air of sophistication about her whenever she wore dresses. Today, she's showing just enough leg to drive you crazy while leaving much to the imagination, and that makes it very hard not to look. You aren't even going to get started on how amazing dresses make her curves appear.

"How can you wear that in the middle of summer in Miami?" Calleigh asks suddenly, taking a quick look at your suit.

You smile. "It's important to make a good first impression," you reply. Despite the fact that the sun is hanging low in the sky and a light breeze is blowing through the streets, she is right: it's getting ridiculously hot under the suit.

"The jacket can go," she says, stealing another quick glance in your direction.

You breathe a sigh of relief and, letting go of her hand for a moment, you slip the jacket off your shoulders and sling it over your arm.

She smiles and raises an eyebrow. "It's a little too easy to undress you," she teases, as the two of you reach your car. She lowers her voice. "The shirt can go, too."

"Take it easy, alright?" You chuckle. "If dinner's goes smoothly, I'll let you have my tie."

"I'd rather have your shirt," she replies playfully.

You open the car door for her, and this time, she doesn't protest. She slides in, and you lean over, keeping the door open with your arm. "Only if you let me choose one article off your outfit," you say sheepishly, looking down at her black dress, catching just enough cleavage to make you feel like you had just added a jacket rather than removed one.

"That's not fair," she replies, her voice low. "And not very gentlemanly of you to suggest," she adds. "You're being judged, you know."

You smile. "How am I doing so far?" you ask playfully, trailing your finger along her neckline. The gentle dip along her collarbone quivers under your touch.

"Before the comment about undressing me, very good. Now, not so much," she replies, watching your hand carefully.

You lean in to capture her lips. She anticipates this and tilts her head just enough to give you access. Her hand trails down your cheek, then moves to the back of your neck to pull you closer. She's as demanding as ever, and you wonder briefly how you ever survived for so long without her. You allow her to do as she wishes with you, and you can tell she likes the control. When you break away, she looks breathy and satisfied.

"How about now?" you ask, trying very hard to sound serious.

"Much better," she breathes.

You smile, feeling pleased, and place a quick kiss on her forehead before backing out of the car and closing the door gently. You walk around the car to the driver's side, always keeping an eye on her through the windshield. She smiles and looks away shyly, and it's so rare for her to show timidity that you treasure the moment. Opening the door and slipping into your seat, you take a quick look at her, then toss your jacket into the backseat. You smile again, because her cheeks are flushed, and you like knowing that only you can make her like this.

You pull away from Valera's apartment, focusing on the road in front of you. You know that if you let your gaze wander to her, you'd probably cause a traffic accident or five.

"Are you going to tell me where you're taking me?" she asks.

You smile. "I told you, Calleigh, it's a surprise."

"For all I know, you could be planning to have me tied up somewhere so you can have your way with me," she says lightheartedly.

You raise an eyebrow, your mind wandering where it really shouldn't. _Way _too early to be going there. "Are you saying you wouldn't like that?" you ask, your voice a lot throatier than appropriate.

If she notices this, she doesn't show it. "I dare you to try it," she challenges.

You chuckle, clearing your throat in the process. "Calleigh, I'm pretty sure you can still kick my ass."

"Not in these heels," she replies with a laugh.

"I don't have rope," you say, taking a brief glance at her. She smiles in confusion, and you laugh nervously. "We are still talking about tying you up, right?"

"I don't even know." She giggles. "But you have handcuffs," she adds innocently.

While you're loving the way she's relaxed and teasing, it's affecting you a little more than it should, and you know that if she keeps this up for a few more minutes, she'll know just how much she really is affecting you. Still, you can't help yourself. "I don't have them on me," you reply, referring to your handcuffs.

"You don't need them right now, though. I doubt you're going to tie me up right here in the middle of the street," she replies coyly.

"You sure about that?" you ask with a laugh. "You know how much of an exhibitionist I am."

"Someone would rescue me," she replies, sounding sure of herself. "Damsel in distress."

"That's not you, Calleigh," you say, shaking your head.

"Maybe," she replies, chuckling slightly, "but who was the one who told me that blonde hair and blue eyes got all the attention around these parts?"

"You have—"

"I know," she interrupts, "but Prince Charming doesn't see that from thirty feet away."

A twinge of something… jealousy? It couldn't possibly be that, you think to yourself, because she's obviously only joking. But just the thought of another man coming to her rescue boils you up inside. She'd hate it, of course, probably kill the poor guy, but it's the notion that sticks out in your head like a sore thumb. If you were going to tie her up, you'd be the only one who should be allowed to rescue her, damn it.

"Eric?"

"Prince Charming needs to mind his own business," you say indignantly, not really noticing how much resentment had been dripping from that sentence.

"You're jealous," she observes teasingly.

Ignoring her remark, you continue, "You wouldn't like it, anyway. Being rescued?" You turn to look at her for a moment. She's smiling, which makes you frown. "It's not your thing."

"Oh, I don't know." She pauses tellingly. "Depends how cute Prince Charming is." She's experimenting with you, seeing how far she can push you before you push back. You remember how much of your time had been spent teasing each other, pushing buttons and pulling hairs until one of you (usually not her) finally gave in. As a side note, the sex had always been better on those nights, you remember, but you _really_ needed to stop going there.

"I could kick Prince Charming's ass any day of the week and twice on weekends," you say, frowning. "He should know better than to approach you when you're clearly taken." You can't help but sound childish, and you're trying, but every words that slips out sounds a little whinier than it probably should.

"Eric, you're so cute when you're possessive," she says with a light chuckle.

And you must be the most pathetic man ever, because you feel a flush creep up your cheeks. Men, especially Cuban-Russian men, aren't supposed to _want_ to be cute, and somehow Calleigh had made it appealing. If she notices this, she doesn't say anything, thankfully. She probably hadn't though, because she definitely wouldn't have let you live down blushing when called cute, especially since it hadn't been out of embarrassment but out of appreciation.

The conversation dies there, although she's still smiling and looks deep in thought. You want to know what's going through that pretty little head of hers, but it isn't like you can just ask. She's never been one to divulge secrets, and well, as long as she's smiling, you're happy too. You'd never pictured yourself as a dependent guy, but in reality, for the past probably seven or eight years, your happiness has loosely reflected hers.

A few turns later, you're pulling into the parking lot of Casa Tua.

"You should've just told me this is where we were going," she pipes up. "I love this place. Why have we never come here before?"

"I don't know." You pause thoughtfully. "Marisol loved it here, too," you add, maneuvering into a spot and turning off the ignition. And without really realizing it, at the mention of your sister, a hint of sorrow slips loosely through your words.

Ever observant, she moves a hand to your arm and squeezes gently.

You smile gratefully and step out of the car; she does the same and walks around to your side. You hand finds the small of her back, but before you can guide her toward the door, she stops you.

"Wait." She smiles, a little apologetically. "Before we go in." She sticks her hand into her purse and fumbles around for a second. "I got you something." She pulls out a black box and fiddles with it in her hands, almost as if trying to hide it from you.

"Oh," you murmur, "you didn't have to." You reach for the box, but her arms stay withdrawn, so you drop your hands to the sides of your body awkwardly and wait.

"I bought it at the airport," she says, as if needing to provide an excuse. "I wasn't going to give it to you since I—" She trails off, looking a little helpless, and she's fidgeting a little, probably the only telltale sign that she's nervous.

"Calleigh."

"Let me finish," she requests, her eyes on the box. She pauses, turning the box over in her hands. "I wasn't going to give it to you but then—" She swallows. "Then you showed up in Raleigh and I—" Your eyes meet. "I wish I had the words to tell you how much that means to me," she finishes quietly. She opens her mouth to say more, but seems to decide against it. She plays with the box a moment more, then holds it out tentatively. "I hope you like it."

Wordlessly, you take the box carefully from her hands and hold it gingerly in yours.

"It's not fragile," she says with a tiny smile. "You won't break it."

"What is it?" you ask, still holding the box as if expecting it to shatter at any moment.

"Open it," she urges. "Consider it an early birthday present."

"My birthday's in December," you reply with a nervous laugh.

She smiles. "So?"

"So, it's August," you explain, hinting obviousness.

"Eric, just open it," she says impatiently.

You take off the cover and remove the watch from the stand.

"Oh, Calleigh, this is perfect," you breathe.

She smiles, apparently pleased at your response. She takes the watch from you and plays around with it for a moment. "You can wear it when you're swimming laps at the pool or something." She looks up at you. "You still do that, right?"

You nod. Swimming had been one of the things that hadn't felt unfamiliar and awkward after she had left.

"It can track your heart rate and blood pressure." She turns the watch over in her hands. "And it's waterproof up to 300 feet."

You take the watch back and run your thumb over the screen. You frown. "This wasn't cheap."

She looks away. "Probably less than your plane ride," she says simply.

"Calleigh—"

"Don't say anything," she pleads, and you sense that she can't handle anything grandly sweet or romantic from you right now.

So you don't say anything at all, only pull her into your arms and kiss her, soft and sensual. She's always communicated best this way, and you know this. You know that she lets her guard down for a moment through intertwined lips.

You make up for lost time. Every kiss feels like the last, every caress still holds the fear of waking up alone. So the desperation continues, but she doesn't let you rush this time, forces your lips to keep pace with hers. Slow and steady. Torturous, but it reminds you that, for the first time in four years, there is time.

"I didn't get you anything," you murmur against her lips.

She pulls away and looks down at your feet. "You came," she corrects softly. "You stood there at my hotel room door despite the fact that I'm insane and this is crazy and that—" She swallows and looks up at you. "That almost makes my gift seem like a joke."

"It's not," you contradict immediately, shaking your head. You press another quick kiss to her lips. "Thank you."

You start to take off your old watch, but she stops you. "You don't have to wear it all the time. I just thought, you know, when you're swimming…"

You give her a look and finish taking off your watch. She smiles and watches as you strap on the new one. After fiddling with it for a moment, it springs to life, a small heartbeat monitor blinking your heart rate in the corner of the display screen.

She cranes her neck to check your watch. "100 beats per minute," she reads, raising her eyebrow, a knowing smirk on her lips. "A guy who's standing still and who has your physical condition should be at 70 to 80, tops."

"Well, I really like this gift," you reply sheepishly.

"This function might come in handy later," she says coyly, but before you can process what _that_ is supposed to mean, she takes you by the hand and leads you toward the restaurant.

You still haven't shaken off what she's said by the time the two of you step through the door, though you've tried. It's always little suggestive things like that that really get you, and you start thinking about how much you just want to take her, right then and there. You're eying her again, and she notices, but you don't care. If you had your way, you'd stare at her all day. _And all night_, but that is thought for another day. Then again, with her comment, you can't even be sure.

Seats are found quickly (of course you had remembered to reserve), and you rush to pull out her chair for her. She glares at you, but she's smiling, too, and you know that deep down, she really does appreciate small romantic gestures sometimes.

After you've take a seat across from her and the waiter leaves, you pick up the menu and flip it open. She does the same, but she's smiling about something. The corners of her lips twitch, as she tries not to show it, but you feel a smile spread across your own lips.

"Calleigh, what have I told you about dirty thoughts at the dinner table?" you ask, as nonchalantly as possible.

She looks up, but she's not rolling her eyes like you had expected her to. She looks startled and a little _flustered_. Was she really—

"Eric, that big mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble one day," she reprimands, laughing a little, and her cheeks are rosy. She turns back to her menu and puts on a straight face. "What are you getting?"

And it takes you a moment to respond, because you realize that she had totally been having an inappropriate thought and damn, it's going to be a long night.

You close your menu, even though you had barely glanced at it, because you know what you want. "Lamb chops."

She raises an eyebrow at you. "Is there something your subconscious is trying to tell you?"

"What?" you ask, genuinely confused.

"Don't tell me you forgot what my father always calls me," she replies, smiling.

And at that, your mouth forms a little 'o' as the realization hits you. You hadn't meant anything by it, but for whatever reason, it's a little embarrassing. And really, it shouldn't be, but you're kind of stuttering and that's totally unattractive. "I didn't—"

Her smile widens, and she closes her menu as well. "I'm going to have tagliolini," she announces, steering the conversation away from that awkward little mishap.

You frown. "I wasn't—"

"I know." She smiles. "And hey, I'm all for subconscious messages," she suggests.

And there it was again, the flirty Calleigh that you hadn't seen in way too long. You can't say you don't appreciate it, but she's making it hard to ignore the tingling feeling you keep getting, especially since she's wearing that black dress that dipped just low enough…

"Are you ready to order?" Alas, saved by the waiter.

He takes your orders, and the whole time, you're thinking you probably should've gotten pasta as well. You compliment the order with a bottle of wine, not that you're planning on getting drunk or getting her drunk, but you imagine you'll need the alcohol to numb your overactive senses for a little while. Plus, it's just one of those things you're supposed to _do_.

When the waiter leaves, the little jumble of tenseness and maybe nervousness returns.

"I never got a chance to ask you what you've been up to," you say.

"You know," she replies, "catching the bad guys."

You chuckle. "Yeah." Clearing your throat, you fiddle absentmindedly with the button on the cuff of your sleeve. "I was surprised that you settled for Boston." And it's a pretty risky topic, but she seems to be responding well, so you push a little.

"Why's that?" she asks, and if she doesn't want to talk about this, she isn't showing it.

"Well, not much crime there compared to Miami," you point out. "Lower profile cases." You shake your head. "Doesn't sound like you."

"Crime is crime," she says with a quick shrug. "And Boston had an open spot." She looks down for a moment and picks at a piece of nonexistent lint on the tablecloth. "I could've waited for a place to free up in a more prominent city, but you know."

"Yeah." And that's when you know it's gone a little too far from her comfort zone.

The waiter has pretty good timing, because he returns then with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. He sets them down and pours a generous helping into each. He smiles and bows a little, then leaves, and you're not sure if it's customary for waiters here to be so silent, but at least he was nice.

You pick up the glass and move it toward your lips, needing it to calm your nerves a little, but Calleigh stops you. "Wait, a toast. You do it," she says, picking up her own glass.

You nod. "Okay, what should we toast to?"

"I'm sure you don't need my help thinking of something to toast to, Eric," she replies, sounding a little exasperated.

You contemplate it for a moment, trying not to take too long. "To second chances," you say finally, raising your glass.

She smiles. "Cheers," she says softly, holding up her glass and clinking it gently against yours.

You take a sip, keeping your eye on her as she does the same. Her sip ends up more like a huge gulp, and you wonder if maybe she's a lot more nervous than she's letting on.

When she finally drops her glass, she smiles. "What about you? Anything exciting happen while I was gone?"

"My sister had another boy," you inform her, because that's the first thing you manage to come up with.

"What's his name?" she asks cautiously, and only then do you remember what she had told you at the park two days ago. Still, there's never a time when you don't want to talk about your new nephew.

"Matthew," you reply, your lips tugging involuntarily into a smile. "He's about eighteen months old now. He's adorable. I'll introduce you to him sometime."

She smiles. "I'd like that," she replies sincerely.

You nod, relaxing a little. "It got my mom to stop bugging me about settling down for a couple of months," you say with a short chuckle.

Wrong thing to say, because she tenses noticeably. You're not even sure what had prompted you to say that, because there was no way that would've gone over well, and still, you had said it. You hadn't even had enough to drink to blame it on the alcohol. Maybe you really were just that stupid.

"Cal…" You sigh, moving to touch her hand. "She'll be okay with it."

She squirms a little and lets out a slow breath. "I don't want her to resent me," she says quietly.

"She won't," you reassure, giving her hand a quick squeeze. "I promise, Calleigh. She loves you."

She sighs and looks down. "I do like children. I just…" She trailed off, moving her hand to play with your fingers, and you know that now is the time to wait, not speak. Finally, she looks up and smiles sadly. "I remember growing up and thinking I was going to be a much better parent than my parents ever were, but there was always this fear that I'd, I don't know, mess them up somehow."

"Ultimately, I'm happy as long as I have you," you say, wishing it was easy to convey that to her, but it's not, and her hand tenses against yours. "Really, Cal, I am, and you never have to worry about my mom. She thinks the world of you."

"Even after I left?" she asks disbelievingly.

"Yes, even then," you reply seriously. "Calleigh, you have to take my word for it. You're not going to disappoint anyone." You smile, giving her hand another squeeze. "For what it's worth though, you'd make a great mom. Don't you dare question that."

She smiles sadly. "Maybe."

"Hey, aren't we starting fresh? This is supposed to be our first date, remember?" You chuckle. "Talking about children on a first date is generally frowned upon," you point out playfully.

She laughs softly. "Okay, so Mr. Delko, what do you do for a living?"

You raise an eyebrow. "Since when do you call me Mr. Delko?"

"How would you know? This is our first date, remember?" she asks mockingly.

You laugh, conceding to the fact that she had gotten you on that one. "I'm a cop."

"Oh, really?" she asks, trying to sound surprised and doing a very good job of it. "So you get to play with badges and handcuffs, huh?" she asks suggestively, and her flirty self was back. "I love guns," she adds.

"Well, coincidentally, an opening just came up at my workplace," you inform her. "You'd get to play with guns every day."

She sobers up a little at that comment and turns serious. "What about us?" she asks quietly. "Doesn't working together put a strain on relationships?"

You study her for a moment, trying to figure out how to approach this. "I worked with this woman once," you say, taking a quick drink of wine. "She was smart, funny, and sexy as hell, and one day, we got involved."

She swallows, and you know that she can tell where this is going. "Just like that?"

You shake your head. "No, danced around the issue for the better part of five years. She was a big fan of professionalism, and he respected her way too much to push the issue," you say, unsure where the line stood and unsure how to stay on the right side of it.

"So what happened?" she asks, her gaze piercing. "How'd you end up with her?"

"Her then-boyfriend was severely injured in a shootout. Went into what the doctors described as an irreversible coma." You try to read her reaction, but she's offering none, so you continue. "We were good friends, _best _friends. I was there for her, I guess."

She waits a whole minute before speaking. "That's a pretty cold and selfish thing for her to do," she says, never looking away. "I mean, her boyfriend wasn't even dead and what, she just fell into your arms?"

"I think I had her in my arms all along," you reply, smiling slightly. She smiles back, which gives you the courage to keep talking. "I had the most amazing ten months of my life with her, and I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world."

"Eric…" Her voice is low and finally carries a semblance of emotion.

You take a deep breath. "When it ended, she told me it was because of work. I don't really believe that, but it doesn't matter, because what do they say? 'Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all'? It's true." You smile a little, because you want to tell her that you're okay, that _this_ is okay, that the two of you can discuss this. "Work never got in the way. If something's meant to happen, it will."

She closes her eyes then, briefly, and when she opens them again, they're a tint redder than before. She takes a shaky breath, covering up her uncertainly with a quick laugh. "Those were the most amazing ten months of my life, too," she agrees quietly. She looks down at your hands again, and tugs lightly at a finger. "Aren't you scared that the same thing will happen?"

"She was always worth the risk," you reply without missing a beat. "I know you will be, as well."

"I'm going to make sure we don't end up like you and her did," she says resolutely.

"Quite a hefty promise for a first date, don't you think?" you tease, smiling to let her know that anytime she wanted, this conversation could be put on hold.

She smiles faintly, apparently grateful for your attempt to lighten the mood.

The waiter returns with the food and places the lamb chops in front of you and the tagliolini in front of her. You hadn't been aware of just how hungry you really are, so you dig in, a little less elegantly than you would've liked to be, but it's not like she's never seen you wolf down food before. Besides, she appears equally hungry, but she's been taught etiquette, so she eats carefully, taking modest mouthfuls. Eating lamb chops in front of her really isn't as strange as you had previously thought it would be, or maybe you are just too hungry to notice or care, because they're delicious.

A few minutes of quiet eating later, the two of you fall into a light, teasing conversation about your lack of table manners, and all is well for the rest of dinner.

You try to pay for her meal, but she refuses, so the bill is split. You make sure to get the bottle of wine on your bill though.

The sun has already set by the time you lead her out of the restaurant, a half-filled wine bottle in hand, and she's a lot more at ease than she had previously been, which in turn makes you relax. She'd had a lot more to drink than you, but her alcohol tolerance levels have always been impressive, especially given her size. You had wanted a little more to drink, but you still had plans for the evening, and driving under the influence had always been a particularly touchy subject with her.

A comfortable silence sets in, as you open the car door for her (again) and she doesn't protest (again). And when you pull away from the restaurant, she doesn't ask you where you're taking her, doesn't need to because maybe she knows.

When you arrive at your destination, she smiles and exits the car, waits for you to get to her side, then searches out your hand with her own.

"I knew you'd take me here," she whispers, her eyes sparkling under the moonlight, and you don't think you've ever seen her this beautiful. Clothed, anyway, but it still wasn't time to go there.

You place a soft kiss on her temple and pull her closer to the edge of the pier.

"This place is exactly how I remember it," she says with a nostalgic smile.

"Yeah, it's still as gorgeous," you reply, loving the way she's lighting up.

You guide her toward a secluded area that you know she will recognize immediately. "Eric," she says softly, reaching out to stroke the railing against which your younger selves had spent so much time together. Not enough, though, never enough time.

She leans into it slowly, tentatively, as if testing the feel of the railing under her weight. You approach her from behind and wrap your arms around her torso, leaning into her gently. She tenses momentarily at the contact, but willingly eases herself into the familiarity of your embrace. You move one arm up to brush her hair off her left shoulder and lower your lips to her exposed skin. You place a soft kiss at the base of her neck, which elicits a throaty sound from her. This encourages you enough to repeat the gesture on the skin right under her ear, and she suppresses a gasp in response. You move your hand sneakily up the fabric of her dress, your fingertips finding a comfortable resting place along her ribs.

"Eric…"

"Do you remember the first time we came here?" you murmur.

"Yeah," she replies, so softly that it could've been mistaken for breathing.

You smile against her neck. "Remember that night?" you ask, already feeling the blood rushing to your head.

"The movie?" she asks innocently.

You pull away slightly. "You were actually watching the movie?" you ask in disbelief.

"Mm-hmm," she replies. She cocks her head to the side to look at you. "Why? Something else catch your attention that night?"

You chuckle and press a soft kiss to her lips. "What was the movie about?" you ask.

"Well, it was about—" She smiles and turns back to the ocean. "That was a long time ago," she points out.

"That's what I thought," you murmur, moving to kiss her shoulder.

She pushes you up a little with her back, and for a minute, you think that she is going to make you stop touching her, but she had only wanted to turn her whole body around to face you. She looks up at you, and even in the relative darkness of this section of the pier, the green in her eyes glitters.

"We should rent it again," she whispers, leaning in to bury her face into your neck. The subtle suggestiveness of her voice sends shivers down your spine.

Trying to ignore the warmth that flows up to your cheeks and down to your groin, you chuckle. "Do you even remember the title?" you ask.

You feel her smile against your neck. "That only matters if you plan on watching it," she murmurs.

You inhale slowly and close your eyes. "Calleigh, you're driving me crazy."

She pushes your chest away gently. "Valera told me this dress would do that," she says, smiling deviously. She moves her hands up to loosen your tie, then concentrates on unbuttoning the top few buttons of your dress shirt, her fingers occasionally brushing against the exposed skin.

When she reaches for the fourth button, you stop her. "Trust me, it's not the dress," you manage to say. You draw your fingers along her arm, liking the way she shivers at your touch.

And then, suddenly, so suddenly that you had learned to expect it from her, she tenses and pushes you to the side. She takes a step away and clears her throat. "It's late."

"Cal—"

"It's getting cold out here," she says, wrapping her arms around her body to prove her point.

"My apartment is warm," you reply immediately. You hate sounding desperate, but you don't want tonight to ever end.

"So's Valera's." Quickly, she looks up. "Eric," she says firmly, and you can tell that it's not a debate.

"We'll watch a movie," you reply, taking a step toward her. Something flashes across her eyes, and you don't realize what you've accidentally suggested until it's too late. "_Really _watch it," you add, but the damage is done.

Sighing, you jam your hands into your pockets and start toward the car, watching her as she follows close behind. You open the door for her again, and this time, she offers no reaction whatsoever, which frustrates you a little. You climb in beside her and give her a look, but she's staring straight ahead, so you sigh and start up the car.

Halfway to Valera's, she places a hand on your arm.

"Wait," she says suddenly, pointing at something. "Turn here."

You obey, nearly running over another car. "That's to my place," you remark, sounding a little idiotic.

She ignores you. "Rule number one: keep your extremities to yourself," she says, not revealing anything with her tone or her demeanor.

"Okay," you reply with a swift nod.

"Rule number two—"

"I have a semantics question," you interrupt, giving her a quick, cautious look. "Do lips count?"

She glares at you but seems to seriously consider this. "They do," she replies, nodding. "Everything counts." She pauses. "Rule number two is I have my gun, so failure to comply with the first rule will result in me putting a bullet through your gut."

You have to bite down on the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing, because she looks so serious that saying or doing anything out of line would probably put rule number two into effect immediately. And it's strange, because you aren't sure why exactly she had asked you to drive to your place. You're not complaining, of course, but it doesn't seem like something the careful, calculated Calleigh would do.

When you pull into your parking space, you still haven't figured out what the hell she's up to, and with her rules in place, it didn't look like you'd be allowed to do anything _you_ wanted to do, but it's Calleigh, and you're prepared to be surprised.


	12. Chapter 12: Calleigh

A/N: An NC-17 version of this chapter can be found at my LJ; link is in my profile. An edited PG-13 version follows this author's note.

* * *

**Chapter 12: Calleigh**

You're not sure why you had asked Eric to turn toward his apartment, even though at the back of your mind, you're pretty sure you have a vague notion. And that terrifies you, which is why you had imposed those stupid rules. If you hadn't been so busy freaking out inside, you would've laughed at your own silly self.

He's fiddling with his lock now, the bottle of red wine clutched in his free hand, his jacket draped over his arm. His dress shirt is still open at the collar, his tie dangling loosely around his neck, and you fight the urge to unbutton it the rest of the way and…

He clears his throat, and your cheeks flush, because he's caught you staring. If he's disapproving (probably not), it'd be kind of hypocritical, because he's been staring at you all night, but you don't mention that. He smiles and pushes his door open, then makes a small bowing motion, gesturing for you to go first.

You enter and immediately, a rush of nostalgia hits you, and you hadn't really realized just how much you really missed this place until now. His apartment, or as much as you can see of it, anyway, has remained stagnant. Nothing has changed, except, you note with a small pang, your pictures, your magazines that had always littered his coffee table, all gone. To be expected, you suppose, but it still clenches your chest.

Leaning down to unstrap Valera's shoes, you remark, "You cleaned up."

He nods, looking like he didn't want to push the issue. He studies you for a moment, then kicks off his shoes and moves to the kitchen. When he returns, he is without the bottle of wine, and you're glad he's put that away, because you know you'd be tempted to down the rest of the bottle, despite the fact that you've already had a little more than you usually allowed yourself.

You clear your throat. "I never got the grand tour," you say, looking at him expectantly.

He smiles slightly, tosses his jacket onto the couch and chuckles nervously. "Uh, well, this is my living room," he replies, waving his arms awkwardly in the air around him. He stops, gives you a knowing look, and the tour ends there.

"You make a terrible guide," you admonish jokingly, taking a few steps toward him.

He smiles, touches your elbow and pushes you gently toward his couch.

"My rule's still in effect, you know," you say softly, watching his fingers brush against your arm, cursing the effect skin-on-skin contact with him has on you.

"I don't see you reaching for your gun," he teases, keeping a wary eye on your purse, which is where he's figured out your gun must be.

You move one hand toward your purse immediately, wanting a reaction from him, and you get one; he flinches, almost imperceptibly, but there's definitely twitching, so you grin and drop your purse on his coffee table. "For a cop, you're not very good at hiding your fear of guns."

"I'm not scared of guns," he protests, moving to sit down on his couch. "Do you want anything?" he asks, and your eyes flit to his, your heart skips. He chuckles. "To drink," he clarifies, but his voice is low, and you're pretty sure there's only one thing on his mind.

And it's not drinks.

"I'm okay," you reply, and you hesitate a moment before joining him on the couch. Without really meaning to, your right hip lands inches from his left, and there's so much heat.

From the corner of your eye, you can tell that he's watching you, and that's unnerving; you just hope he doesn't notice your unease. Your mind keeps wandering to the last time you were here, what you had said that night that had turned his world upside down. What had happened before you left, before he knew…

And that memory brings a quick flush to your cheeks, so you try to concentrate on something else:

_Valera. Valera and Ryan? Ryan. OCD. Repetition. Multiple. Three times, he took you to your peak that night._

Try again:

_Miami. The beach. The ocean. The pier. The way you felt tonight, cradled in his arms, his lips breezing across your skin, his fingertips drawing indistinguishable patterns along your—_

Damn it.

"Do you want to talk about what happened with your dad?" he asks suddenly, taking you from your thoughts.

You heart makes a quick skip. Earlier, at dinner, when you had mentioned your father, he hadn't noticed your discomfort, and for that, you are thankful. Still, you didn't come here to talk about that, aren't ready yet, so you frown and make a brisk, dismissive reply.

"I said not today."

"Okay," he nods, and another silence impregnates the space between his body and yours. He leans back, squirming a little. "I really do have movies. We can—"

But you cut him off, press a hand against his mouth to shut him up, because you hate that he's making small talk. He looks surprised, and his hand instinctively snaps to yours, pulls it away from his lips.

"I thought there was a rule," he murmurs, smiling slightly.

Ignoring him, you lift yourself up a little and press your body against his, half-straddling him. His eyes widen, and he gives you an almost questioning look, like he doesn't know what you're doing.

You're pretty sure he figures it out when you press your lips to his and dart your tongue between them. His hands find your cheeks, strokes, runs down your neck but stops before he reaches your breasts. He gives you a gentle push, and you stand up, pulling him up with you.

"Calleigh…"

"Shut up," you say, rather roughly, your voice low in your throat, and he gives you a longing look and complies.

He follows you to his bedroom, and you have to push down wave after wave of guilt and nostalgia, but you manage, and though he may not realize it, his proximity helps.

At the doorway, his hand reaches for the light switch, but you swat it away. There's a glow of the street lamp outside casting a long beam along one wall, and that's enough, you decide.

Your lips find his again, and it's a little more urgent, a little more insistent, and he fulfills into your demand willingly, gives back everything he takes, because that's just who he is.

Your hands move to the bottom of his shirt and slip underneath. You run your fingers roughly along the skin on his side and his back, pulling him as close as he will come.

When you break away, he rests his forehead on yours, his eyes closed. His hands are gripping your hips, but you feel him loosen his fingers. "This—" He swallows, and you feel it against your forehead. "—is too soon."

And maybe he's right, but fuck, you don't want to think about this right now. You only want to remind yourself of what it had felt like to be like this with him again, and even the possibility that this could ruin things is not enough to stop you.

"Don't overanalyze this, Eric," you manage, running your hands loosely down his chest, relearning the shape of a body that you had been so intimately familiar with.

His breathing deepens, but he takes hold of your elbows and gently pulls your arms out from under his shirt. "We need to take this slow."

"You don't believe that," you say pointedly, your breathing jagged. You want to scream at him for his rationality.

Your work demands this type of rationality, but he's never brought that rationality into his personal life, so it becomes excruciatingly maddening that he would stop you like this when you know there's probably nothing else he wants more. He has made you feel needy, and you despise dependence.

He pulls his head off your forehead and opens his eyes to look at you. The room is dark, but for the first time in too long, you are close enough to really see his eyes. They are exactly how you remember them: chocolate brown, yet so clear you can see your own reflection in them, always revealing.

"We need to take this slow," he repeats wryly, his hands still on your elbows.

"I want this." You sigh. "Don't think about this now," you admonish, reaching for his shirt again.

But he stops you again, holding on to your arms. "Calleigh, if we do this, we can't undo this." You give him an obvious, pointed look. He sighs in frustration, apparently upset that his words are so useless with you in such close proximity.

"We've done this before," you remind him, reaching out a third time.

His eyes tell you that this is different, but he lets you take hold of the bottom of his shirt this time. He doesn't protest when you start to pull the shirt over his head; you can't be bothered with the buttons, and you've already unbuttoned enough to pull, so you do, and his tie comes off as well. Tossing shirt and tie aside, you run your fingertips down his chest again, leaning in to place soft kisses anywhere your lips can reach. His hand finds your chin and pulls your face up to his own lips again. He presses his lips against yours softly, testing the feel of your lips against his, almost like the first time you did this. He reaches around you for your zipper, but you're moving too much, and the his fingers are clumsy against your back, so he groans into your mouth. Your hands abandon his chest for a moment to help him with the zipper. He increases the intensity of the kiss, adding the tip of his tongue, but still toying, just the way he knows you used to like it. His lips remind you that you still do…

-/-/-

Curving your body into him, your head finds the crook of his neck, and you breathe in the scent of his aftershave mixed with a hint of perspiration. Intimacy has lulled you into a temporary sense of invincibility, and you'll revel in the feeling for as long as you possibly can. There's an inexplicable comfort there, and his naked body pressed against yours eases your conscience, erases your guilt.

Tomorrow, you'll talk. About your move to Miami, about your father, about tonight.

But tonight, tonight you sleep soundly in his arms.


	13. Chapter 13: Eric

**Chapter 13: Eric**

There's nothing more amazing than watching Calleigh wake up in the morning. First, she stirs, but when that happens, nothing in the world will wake her. The trick is to wait until she's stopped fidgeting, and in those precious moments immediately following her small movements, the window of opportunity arises. Months of waking up next to her has taught you this, and you haven't forgotten, despite the time spent apart.

That's how you manage to wake her today: you wait for the perfect fraction of a second to run your fingertips down her arms, along her sides, and she shivers involuntarily. Luckily for you, old habits are hard to break, and as expected, she awakens.

"Morning," you mumble into her hair.

"What time is it?" she asks sleepily, moving one hand up to rub her eyes.

"Six," you reply, planting a soft kiss on her forehead.

She looks at you and frowns. "You have work in two hours."

You shrug and pull her close, liking the way her skin slides against yours. "It's Saturday."

"CSIs never get Saturdays off," she points out.

"I'll call in sick," you say stubbornly, wanting nothing more than to spend the whole day in bed with her.

"You can't do that," she admonishes, squirming out of your grip.

"Why not?" you ask, frowning slightly.

"Because." She sighs and buries her head into your neck again. "You've already taken off two days because of me," she murmurs. "Are you planning on joining me at the unemployment office?"

You chuckle. "No, but it's highly presumptuous of you to assume that I'm taking today off because of you," you tease, causing her to look up again.

"Really? Then why?" she asks suspiciously.

"Someone kept me up most of the night," you reply, grinning sheepishly.

She tenses instantly, and somehow, you had known she would. She sits up abruptly, pulling the comforter up around her. "Go to work," she says, her voice edgy. "I have to go apartment shopping anyway." And you know where _this_ conversation is going to lead.

You reach for her but she recoils. You sigh, watching as she leans over the edge of the bed to grab her clothing. She somehow manages to gather everything without once dropping the comforter wrapped tightly around her body, quickly and quietly slips on the boxers and shirt that you had handed her the night before. You sit up, a little self-conscious about your own nudity, but her eyes are avoiding you, so you stand up and rummage through your drawers for a clean change of clothes. By the time you've dressed yourself, she's dropped the comforter back on the bed and left your bedroom, her dress and underwear clutched tightly in her arms.

You hear a soft, distant click, and your knees grow weak, your heart's being torn open again and the awful nauseous feeling at the pit of your stomach returns. Moments later, however, there's the sound of a showerhead being turned on, of sprays of water hitting linoleum and glass and skin, and your breathing evens.

She's not gone.

Not yet, anyway, and it wouldn't have made sense if you had really thought about it, because she couldn't have made it to the front door so soon, would never have been caught dead in public in a pair of boxers and a loose tee, but the possibility has left you trembling, and you wonder if this is how it's going to be for the rest of your life.

You'll take it though, because you're hopelessly addicted, and there's always the firm belief that one day, forever will no longer seem like a faraway target. She's always been a better shot than you, anyway.

You open another drawer and dig deep, finally coming up with a top and a pair of pants that she had left behind four years ago. A little further, and you come up with a pair of her panties. If it had been creepy then, well, it certainly was convenient now. You ball it up inside her clothes and tentatively, you make your way to the bathroom door, attempting to steady your pulsing temples. You contemplate knocking, but decide against it, and instead grasp the handle of the door tightly and twist. It's not locked, and there's no surprise there, because she never used to close the bathroom door when she showered, always offered a silent invitation all those nights she stayed over, all those mornings the two of you arrived to work late.

But it's different now.

This is not an invitation; you know that much, but you enter anyway, despite the fact that you have a shower stall with glass walls and a glass door, only frosted in the appropriate places. She freezes the moment you step in, and the look she gives you makes you glad that guns perform poorly when wet.

Fighting the urge to hop into the shower with her, you try to act casual about the whole thing, despite the fact that Calleigh fucking Duquesne is buck-naked three feet and a thin pane of glass away, and even though you've seen plenty of that, it never fails to amaze you. Putting down the toilet seat cover, you place the clothes you had brought her on it, and you know that she's watching you warily, can practically feel the holes she's burning into the back of your skull.

As calmly as you can muster, you move to stand over the sink and grab your toothbrush. Slathering some toothpaste onto the tip, you shove it into your mouth and begin brushing. By the time you spit out the foam and finish rinsing your mouth, she still hasn't moved, even as the water keeps pounding down on her.

You lean against the counter and decide to test your voice.

"Calleigh—"

"Eric," she interrupts, voice all business. She gives you an expectant glare. "I'm showering," she says coldly, dismissively.

You leave then, without a word, because damn, you hadn't expected that to hurt, but it does, persistent and sharp.

Closing the bathroom door, you head toward the kitchen, trying to clear your head, trying to figure out what you'll say to her later, how to probe without really probing, how to approach her without _scaring_ her, though you'd never dare use that word in her presence; fear isn't something she's come to accept.

This is how you knew it would be. One step forward, a glimpse of hope and love and genuine possibility; a tumble, falling deep, maybe falling deeply _in love_ and maybe that's the reason, but whatever it is, she only trusts you enough to allow you a brief taste, waits for the dependence to settle, realizes she's in too deep and it's too much and she doesn't want this _thing_ anymore. Or she does, and it scares the shit out of her, and here comes the fear factor again.

Bottom line, Cooper and Ryan had been right, and if history were any indication, sometimes, loss is inevitable. You can't help but think that if you had stopped her last night, she would've returned to Valera's and everything would be okay, because hell, she'd had a little to drink – you could taste the tangy flavor on her tongue, couldn't you? – and was still worrying about whatever her father had done. The realization that she had turned to you for _comfort sex_, and you had _let her_ hits you hard, and that's the nail in the coffin, right there, because you've gone and quite literally fucked everything up.

No irony, no humor, just an extremely dry mouth and a suffocating perception of loss.

You busy yourself around the kitchen, brewing a pot of coffee, concentrating on flour and eggs and milk and other really irrelevant ingredients in an attempt to temporarily stop your mind from racing.

_"I'm going to make you breakfast tomorrow morning," you declare firmly, __scanning the aisles of the grocery store._

_She chuckles and pushes an empty shopping cart __up __beside you, and immediately, you try to take the handle from her, but she swats your hand away.__ "Ignoring the blatant ulterior motive, you __sure you can handle that?__" she asks dubiously__, pushing the cart ahead and making you follow__ a step behind__. "I mean, you can barely boil an egg."_

_You frown__ at the back of her head__. "There was foul play involved in that incident."_

_She turns to look at you. __"Or maybe you just can't boil an egg?" she __suggests__, picking up a bag of tom__atoes and dropping them into the__ cart._

_You __tak__e a quick step forward to catch up to her, __lean over and lower your voice. "Next time you try to cook something, I'm going to stick my hands down your pants and we'll __see how good the outcome tastes,"__ you whisper, your fingertip trailing down her arm._

_Her cheeks flush a tiny tint, and she elbows you. "Eric!__" She shakes her head__ and moves to pick out other vegetables. "__That's no way to treat a lady."_

_"Unless the lady likes it," you __respond__ suggestively. She ignores you, but you can see a __small smile playing on her lips, and __you marvel at how much being around her__ can lift your spirits.__ "You were saying something before about a__ blatant ulterior motive?"_

_She gives you an impatient look. __"Don't tell me the requirement that I sleep ov__er never once crossed your mind,"__ she says flatly__, though the gentle sparkle in her eye gives her away._

_You chuckle. __"Well, I was just thinking you'd come over in the morning and I'd feed you some pancakes,__" you reply, feigning indifference,__but hey, I like that suggestion just as much."_

_"You're incorrigible," she says, laughing a little. __She picks up various fruits and drop them in after the vegetables. "__I don't know why I put up with you sometimes."_

_"I'm sure you do," you reply dismissively. __"O__therwise, you wouldn't have offered to come grocery shopping with me."_

_"T__he only__ edible thing__ in your __apartment, other than condiments and seasoning,__ was a can of green beans,"__ she says exasperatedly__, taking a loaf of bread off the shelves._

_"That's__ becaus__e I'm always over at your place,"__ you explain. You pause and smile sheepishly. "You take such good care of me."_

_"Flattery __isn't going to get you anywhere,__" she says resolutely, glaring briefly at you._

_"You sure? The last time I told you that you were pretty, we wer__e late to work the next morning,"__ you tease, enjoying the dangerous look she gives you in response._

_She __turns away and __bites her lip__ to stifle a retort__, though you can tell that she's not really angry or upset. She__ moves to the dairy section and gets you milk, butter, cheese.__ She tackles meat next, then __allows a few bags of chips and a six-pack of beer that you sneak into the cart._

_There's something so calming and just _normal_ about going grocery shopping with her, you note as she pulls up to the cash register. She notices your ease and smiles, and if perfect moments existed, this had to be one of them._

_In the parking lot, as you run your eyes quickly over the receipt, you frown. __"Why did you make me pay for bananas and pecans?__" you ask, looking up.__ "I hate bananas__ and pecans are nuts, which automatically makes them weird."_

_She stops in front of her car, opens the trunk. __"I like __them__ in my pancakes,__" she says simply__, picking up a paper bag and placing it carefully into her trunk._

_You smile__ and move to help her load the groceries. __"You're staying over?"__ you ask, unable to keep the enthusiasm out of your voice._

_She nods. __"But i__f you make us late for work a__gain, I'm going to castrate you,__" she threatens._

_"You love __L__ittle Eric too much to do that,"__ you reply, fully expecting __the annoyed__ look you get in return._

_"I think I'd get over it,__" she says, pushing the now-empty cart toward you. "E__specially if Big Eric keeps calling his penis Little Eric."_

_"It's actually ill__egal how much that turned me on,"__ you reply playfully, and though you're mostly joking, you'd never question her ability to turn your 180-pound frame into a pool of jelly._

_She rolls her eyes and gives you a weak push. "__Go return the cart."_

Somehow, despite your lack of attention, you manage not to burn or otherwise ruin the pancakes you're making. There are no bananas in your apartment, because you still hate them, and no pecans, because they're still as weird, though you wish you had some, because you had learned to make a mean banana-pecan pancake, just for her.

She's taking a long shower, because only when you've plopped the plate of pancakes down on the table and extracted some syrup and butter from your fridge does the water stop running. You find yourself gravitating toward the bathroom again, but this time, when you reach the door, you stay still, keeping your hands far away from the doorknob, and wait.

When she opens the door, she's wearing the outfit you had found for her. She looks surprised to see you there, but the shower seems to have calmed her, and her eyes soften.

"I'm sorry," she offers quietly, looking down.

You study her for a moment, then draw her carefully into your arms, wet hair and all. She breathes a shaky sigh of relief into your chest. You tighten your grip, and you can feel her hands clutching your sides urgently.

"Don't go, Cal," you murmur.

She pulls her head off your chest and swipes absentmindedly at the damp blotches on the front of your shirt. "I'm not ready for this," she says tightly, desperation evident in her voice.

"I know," you reply, running your fingers lightly through her hair. "I'm sorry I didn't try very hard to stop you last night."

She shakes her head. "No, I shouldn't have pushed this with you," she says, looking every bit as guilty as you feel.

"Are you upset this happened?" you ask cautiously, not really sure you want to know the answer.

"No," she replies immediately, and you can almost see the resolve hardening in her eyes. "No, Eric, I'm not." She pauses, squeezes her arms around your body and takes a deep breath. "I wanted this as much as you did."

"Then why are you pushing me away again?" you ask quietly, moving your hand to stroke her cheek.

She closes her eyes and leans into your touch. "I don't know," she replies. "You probably think that I did this to feel better about four years ago or as a temporary distraction, but I didn't, and it wasn't." She opens her eyes and looks straight at you; the sincerity there is breathtaking. "I may not be good at showing it, but last night meant something to me."

You take a deep breath. "I was so scared that it hadn't, that I'd lost you again," you admit, and your combined fear is almost tangible.

She shakes her head and pulls you closer. "You're never going to lose me again," she whispers, "not unless you want to."

"Never," you reply, and it's been a while since you managed to fuse so much emotion into one word. "I made you breakfast," you hear yourself saying. "Pancakes."

She smiles. "It smells good," she says, pulling away from your embrace and heading to the kitchen.

You follow her, head and heart not ringing as hard as before, and watch as she settles down to eat. You retrieve a knife and fork from your drawers and hand them to her, watching carefully as she pours a modest amount of syrup and meticulously cuts the pile in half. She clips off a small corner for you to taste, holds the fork up to you and smiles when you push her arm aside and lean down to taste something else entirely. She allows you one small kiss before stopping you.

"There are no pecans or bananas," she remarks, grimacing.

You smile and steal another kiss. "I didn't have pecans or bananas," you explain.

She sticks the piece that had been meant for you into her mouth and chews attentively. "It's good, anyway."

"I know," you reply confidently, moving to pour her a cup of coffee. Sugar, no cream, just the way she's always liked it.

When you place the mug in front of her, she smiles gratefully and takes a sip. "I'm going to call my dad again, today," she says thoughtfully, and you know that this is the way she offers openings and that those openings never last long.

You pour yourself a cup of coffee and find yourself a fork, wondering how to approach the subject without pushing her too fast. You slip into the seat next to her and stick your fork into the plate of pancakes, snipping off a piece. "You never did tell me what happened," you say cautiously, bringing your fork toward your lips.

She turns to look at you, takes another bite of pancake, swallows. "I called him to let him know I was in Miami." She takes another sip of coffee. "He got so angry. He said I should've given him a _warning_, like I was some incoming hurricane and he needed the time to evacuate." And though she's good at hiding pain, you've learned to read even the most subtle hints, and you can tell that her father's reaction has cut her deep.

"Why would he say that?" you ask gently.

She sighs, looks away. "I don't even know, but I can only imagine…"

"Calleigh—"

"I talked to him all the time when I was in Boston. He never even hinted that something was wrong." She takes a deep breath and puts down her fork. "Maybe I wasn't looking hard enough."

"Don't blame yourself," you say, wishing you had the words to comfort her. "Besides, you don't even know what's going on. He might have a good reason."

"To avoid me like the plague?" she asks in disbelief. She swallows. "He doesn't, and if I start believing he does, I'll just be let down when I find out the truth."

"Your father may have his problems, but he loves you," you reassure softly. "He's always only had your best interests in mind."

"He hasn't tried to call since. If he cared, wouldn't he want to make sure he and I were okay?" she asks, and the fearful uncertainty in her voice nearly kills you.

"Calleigh," you say quietly, "what did you think when I never called you after you left?"

She studies you for a moment, as if trying to decipher where this is headed. "I thought you were respecting my wishes by not contacting me," she replies slowly. She exhales loudly. "I know where you're going with this, but I didn't tell him to leave me alone."

You nod, a little noncommittal. "I didn't call you because I was scared of what you'd say, how you'd react," you divulge, feeling half-healed wounds reopening. You take a deep breath and look at her expectantly, but she's watching you with a silent authenticity. You spin your fork absentmindedly between your fingertips, as an unease settles over you. "I wasn't sure I could handle knowing you'd moved on, forgotten about what we had."

"Eric," she whispers, cocking her head slightly to the side. She takes the fork out of your hands and holds your fingers tightly.

"My point is," you say, wanting to finish before your voice gives out, "you can't be sure why someone's not calling you until you ask them and they tell you the absolute truth." You smile faintly. "When you talk to your dad again, you'll know what's going on."

A flash of confusion clouds her pupils. "I didn't know that was why you never—"

"Forget about that," you interrupt quickly, not wanting to delve into painful emotions of the past.

She stares at you for a long time, until the darkness dissipates from her eyes. "I didn't," she says softly. "I didn't move on," she clarifies. "I never forgot."

You swallow, feeling that dry lump in your throat. "I know that now," you murmur, fighting to keep your composure.

"Don't—" Her voice is croaky, and she takes a shaky breath, her fingers trembling lightly against yours. "Don't forget it."

"I won't," you promise, pulling her hand toward you and brushing your lips lightly across her knuckles. "Call your dad."

"I will," she replies. "I just need to work up the courage."

You give her hand a final squeeze before leaning over and cupping her cheeks with the palms of your hands. "If you need me, any time at all, you call, okay?"

She nods against your hands. "Okay."

A quick glance at the clock on your stove informs you that despite all the fuss you've made about taking the day off, you need to make an appearance at work. "I have to go soon," you say reluctantly, pulling her in for a chaste kiss. "I need to take a shower," you add, standing up. "Finish your pancakes."

You begin walking out of the kitchen, but then you remember something. "Hey, you're going to be running all over the place today, right? Why don't you take my car for the day?" you offer thoughtfully. "I'll call Wolfe and get him to give me a ride."

She nods and smiles. "Tell him I said hi."

You scratch your head nervously. "You don't mind him knowing that you stayed over?" you ask, a little taken aback by her lack of hesitation.

"Oh." She pauses tellingly, considering this angle. "I don't want him to know yet," she replies quietly. "Don't say anything."

You nod and smile a little, even though you know you'll be reading too much into her refusal to expose anything to Ryan. Giving her one last look, you exit the kitchen and head to your bedroom in search of an outfit suitable for work. You gather up your own clothes that had been strewn haphazardly across the floor and find your cell phone inside your pant pocket. You fingers fly deftly over the digits. You bring the phone to your ear and pin it there with your shoulder, moving to toss your dirty clothes into your laundry hamper, making sure to remove your car keys for Calleigh.

After two rings, Ryan picks up. "Yeah, Ryan Wolfe."

"Wolfe, man, listen. Could you drop by my place on your way to work?" you ask, moving back to your room to find a pair of pants and a dress shirt. "I need a lift."

"I'm already at work," he replies flatly, sounding a little annoyed.

You frown. "Well, could you drop by anyway? I'd really appreciate it." You shift the phone to your other ear, as you reach into your closet.

"I guess I could drop by, pick you up," he considers slowly. "You pay for gas," he adds as an afterthought.

You laugh. "It's like fifty cents worth of gas from my place to the lab."

"Fifty-seven, with today's gas prices. Two-way, it'd be a buck fourteen." He pauses. "And if you factor in weather, which changes the coefficient of friction between my tires and the road, it'd be—"

"How about I give you a five and you never mention this conversation again?" you interrupt, feeling a little embarrassed for him.

"I'll be over in twenty," he replies, hanging up.

Chuckling to yourself, you drop the phone on your bed and head to the bathroom, work clothes in hand. You shower quickly, and it could just be your imagination, but you smell Calleigh in the stall, and you can't help but think how pathetic you are for noticing.

Dressed and dry, you find the badge and gun that you had left at home for your date last night and clip them to your pants. Your wallet, still open, is lying at the foot of your bed, a harsh reminder of the little 'problem' that had arisen, but you quickly push that thought aside and stuff the wallet into your pocket.

Calleigh's waiting for you at the door. You hand her your keys, which she slips quickly into her pocket.

"The round one's to my front door," you inform her, and she nods inattentively.

"Eric, listen," she begins slowly. "Before you go, there's something I need to tell you." And you know that it's important, because you can almost feel her heart pounding in her chest, or maybe it's _your_ heart pounding in _your_ chest, but either way, it's essential. She looks down, reaches out and begins fiddling nervously with your shirt. "Last night, after we—" She trails off, appearing a little uncomfortable, and looks back up at you. "You said that you—" Her eyes finish her sentence, but apparently she feels the need to clarify. "You said something, and I said nothing." There's guilt there, an apology maybe.

You shake your head. "That was—" You smile a little, and you're sure that it's less than convincing, but she appears too preoccupied to notice. You take her hands in yours, squeezes them gently. "Don't worry about that."

She reaches up to brush her lips lightly against yours. "I love you, too," she whispers, and she smiles, almost in relief. "I'm sorry I never made that clear."

"Cal…" you murmur, your head spinning. Somehow, with four little words Calleigh Duquesne has managed to make your stomach flip inside-out.

In the good way.

"Eric, I love you," she repeats urgently, louder this time. "I don't want to be afraid of saying it anymore."

"I love you, too," you reply, feeling your heart soar. "So much."

She smiles, leans in to touch her lips to yours, and it's different somehow, freer, and for the first time, you can _see_ her through the kiss. There's a message there, a message that can't be put into words, no matter how hard she's tried, but as her tongue runs lazily over yours, you just _know_. You understand, and the revelation overwhelms you.

A gentle push to your chest hints that she's out of breath, so you pull away reluctantly.

She smiles, her cheeks tinted a satisfied pink. "Okay, go to work," she urges softly.

"I'm going to be thinking of you all day, you know that, right?" you say, slipping on your shoes and opening the door.

"Same here, Eric," she replies. "Same here." She smiles again, pushes you out the door and closes it.

All the way down the stairs, you're sure you're floating, fucking _floating_, hovering a good six inches above the ground, and the recreational drugs you had experimented with in high school never gave you a high this amazing.

Calleigh's words replay over and over again in your head, and you can't believe that the brave woman upstairs had allowed those three little words to slip past her lips. And while for many, the phrase is easy to come by, you know that it's quite something for her to actually vocalize it. This way, it means so much more, and you're pretty sure you have a permanent grin stitched onto your face, but looking like an idiot for her has never been a problem before.

You don't even know how much time has passed when Ryan finally arrives, but he looks displeased when you climb in.

"Did your car break down or something?" he asks, annoyed, as he drives steadily down your street.

If you hadn't been riding on your little high, and if Ryan hadn't been doing you a favor, you would've reached over and slugged him across the face, but you are and he is, so you reply in a civil manner. "No, I figured Calleigh'll need a car. She's going apartment shopping."

"When are you going to give her your keys?" he asks, taking a quick, suspicious look at you.

"What?" You frown. "Whenever. She can drop by the lab or something," you reply, shrugging. You narrow your eyes warily. "Why are you so interested?"

"No reason." He clears his throat. "So how was your night?" he asks, aiming for nonchalance and failing.

You chuckle. "Excuse me?"

"Your night," he repeats pointedly. "How was it?"

"Yeah, I heard you." You frown. "What the hell are you talking about?"

He laughs. "You know," he says, hinting obviousness.

"Yeah, I do," you reply slowly. "What I want to know is, how do _you_ know?"

"Calleigh wasn't at Valera's last night," he says, shrugging.

You scoff. "And what? Valera calls you up to inform you of that?"

"I was there last night until pretty late," he replies, "so unless she showed up after two…"

"I'm surprised Valera didn't kick your ass out," you mumble under your breath.

"She enjoys my company, alright? Stop picking on me," he says indignantly. "Besides, I only showed up because I thought Calleigh'd be there and I'd have a reason to hang out," he explains, frowning. "She wasn't."

You allow the silence to settle, and you're glad that Ryan's not pushing it, but you figure that so long as he knows, there's no harm in confirming. "Yeah, Calleigh spent the night."

"And?"

"And nothing," you reply, already regretting your decision to confirm anything. "None of your business." You pause, watching him take a sharp left turn. "Weren't you the one being a baby about the whole thing when we talked to you from Raleigh?"

"I wasn't being a _baby_," he complains.

"Yeah, well, you sure were being something else," you reply. "Something that starts with 'pain' and rhymes with 'in the butt.'"

He gives you a humorless look. "You know, Delko, you're really funny," he says sarcastically.

You chuckle. "I try."

For the rest of the ride, it's quiet, and you're thankful, because too much Ryan does nobody any good. When he finally pulls into the MDPD employee parking lot, he holds out his hand.

You raise your eyebrow in confusion. "Look, I'm fully secure with my sexual orientation, but I think the hand-holding will only fuel the rumors about yours."

"Gas money, you idiot," he replies, clearly embarrassed.

"Oh." Groaning, you reach into your pocket for your wallet and pull out a five-dollar bill. He takes it from you and climbs out of the car; you follow.

As soon as the two of you enter the lobby, he turns to you. "I got stuff to do, so if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work," he says.

You shrug. "Be my guest."

He leaves quickly, and you can't help but think that he's acting a little off, even for Ryan.

You make your way to the second floor in search of Horatio, but he finds you first.

"Eric," he calls out to you from your right.

You turn to his voice and begin approaching him. "H. Any news about my trip to Raleigh? Will I have to speak to another agent?"

"No, I worked it out," he replies. "Probation. Strictly desk duty for the next three weeks, Eric. Got it? Desk duty." He pauses and tilts his head to the side. "Rick was pushing IAB for dismissal or demotion, but I refused to let that happen."

You smile gratefully. "Thanks, H. I really appreciate this."

He nods. "You know, Eric, you've got some vacation time saved up, and I know you'd like some time off, so why don't you take the next two and a half weeks," he suggests. "I imagine paperwork wasn't what drew you to the job."

You frown. "Won't IAB get suspicious?"

"Not unless you get yourself into trouble," he replies calmly. "So don't do that, okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be more careful," you promise, knowing that if it hadn't been for Horatio, things could've turned very ugly.

"Okay," he nods. "You will, however, have to stick around today. There's mandatory paperwork regarding your visit to Raleigh to be filled out, but tomorrow, I'll have Mr. Wolfe take a trainee out on the field instead of sending you."

You chuckle. "Are you trying to replace me?" you ask jokingly.

He smiles. "Depends how well this rookie performs," he replies.

You take a deep breath. "And what about Calleigh? Is she in trouble because I mentioned her name at the airport?" you ask.

"No," he replies, "the FBI cleared her this morning."

"That's a relief," you say, releasing a breath.

He nods. "Pick up your paperwork and get started," he says, pointing toward reception. "The sooner you finish, the better."

"Got it. Thanks again, H."

"Always a pleasure," he replies, walking away.

For the next five hours, you fill out form after form, write out report after report, and you find yourself checking your phone a little more often than you usually do. Boredom has nearly reduced you to tears, but at the end of those five hours, you reach the last sheet of paper and let out a long sigh, feeling accomplished.

Almost as if on cue, your phone rings; it's Calleigh. Flipping it open so quickly you nearly fling it across the room, you press it against your ear.

"Calleigh."

There's a long pause, and you can almost sense that something has gone terribly wrong. She's breathing heavily into the receiver, and that terrifies you.

"Calleigh," you repeat, louder and more insistent this time, your heart racing.

She clears her throat and somehow, in the way that sound makes its way to your ear, you sense that she's trembling. "I, uh, I got everything sorted out in Boston," she says finally, her voice eerily composed. "My landlady's going to help me sublet the apartment until my lease is over."

"That's great," you reply, trying to figure out what could be wrong.

"Yeah," she continues, "and I got a friend from work to help me gather up my belongings and get it shipped here. I gave him your address; I hope that's okay."

"That's fine. Calleigh, where are you?" you ask, unable to keep that tinge of desperation out of your words.

She doesn't answer for so long that you think she's ignoring you or hasn't heard you, but when she finally replies, quiet and vulnerable, your heart is split down the middle.

"At the pier."

It takes you a moment to regain your voice, because your mind's racing, jumping to obvious and not-so-obvious conclusions all at once. "Listen, can you do me a favor?" you ask, as softly and soothingly as you can muster. "Can you stay there?"

"Eric, I'm fine," she says sharply, and at least there's _something_ there.

"I know," you reply carefully, and you know from experience that when she's close to shutting down, pushing her too quickly is not the way to go. You lower your voice. "I just want to see you, okay? Stay there," you urge.

The tiny 'okay' that you receive in response and the telling click that ensues are enough to affix a knot at the pit of your stomach.

And with every passing second, the knot tightens.


	14. Chapter 14: Calleigh

**Chapter 14: Calleigh**

It's kind of funny how some things work out. How you can spend your whole life running away from your past and yet, one slip, one little breathing pattern that you never picked up on, and it feels like your whole world is crashing. You've never been one for dramatics or exaggerated flair, but you only remember being this terrified once before in your life, and that was when you and Ryan had arrived at the hospital and the nurse had said, "Oh, your friend won't be needing that anymore," and you really did think that Eric had left you, just like everyone else before him.

He'd made it through though, and even though for a while, it seemed like he'd have some trouble adjusting, he'd done fine, just like you always knew he would.

But the shooting and his subsequent recovery had convinced you of one thing: there was more there, and maybe there always was, but it had become impossible to ignore. Still, you continued your little charade, and he had given you the time, even watched as you stayed with the wrong man, and in some sick, twisted way, it made you realize just how much he was willing to give up to get a chance with you, and somewhere, you would've given up the same for him.

And yet, despite this revelation, it wasn't until after another shooting, after the two stray bullets, that you finally let go of the past and began to understand that old habits die hard. Even today, you still feel the guilt of having waited until Jake was violently taken out of the picture before allowing yourself to succumb to the little flutters inside your stomach that spoke of an unbreakable trust, of a leap of faith that had sounded a lot riskier than it had actually been.

People say that the brain masks over traumatic events, covers them to defend the mind from the possibility of lingering pain, but this defense mechanism rarely seemed to work for you, because you remember that day; every tiny sound wave that floated to your ears in the form of syllables, every photon absorbed and reflected into your pupils, against your retinas, through optic nerves and processed in the visual cortex to etch a memory into the banks. You remember, but it's difficult to make sense of the jumble, and maybe that's what the mechanism's all about.

_Blood. There's so much goddamn blood and it's not yours. Fuck. Breathe._

_"Help's coming, Jake, stay with me," you plead, trying to keep pressure on his neck without damaging it further, but he's convulsing and it's difficult to keep him still. "Jake, damn it, don't—" And the rest of that is swallowed up by a sob, and you know that he can't hear you – that right there is tearing you apart inside-out – but you still don't want to cry in front of him, still want to stay strong._

_When the ambulance finally arrives, he's stopped seizing but he's still got a pulse and the paramedics are careful with him – a good sign, right? – as they lift him onto a gurney and strap him in._

_You muscle your way past the two people who are trying to figure out if the blood on your shirt is yours and climb onto the ambulance despite protests from the EMTs. You want to tell them to stuff it, but you don't because you just want to cry and you're pretty sure they're going to force you to speak with someone if you start crying._

_Tears keep blurring your vision but thankfully, everyone's too focused on Jake to really notice, and you can barely breathe and you're shaking but maybe not and it smells so damn metallic in the back of the ambulance. The siren's on, and it's sensory overload._

_The next thing you know, you're standing in the waiting room outside the OR, pacing, but after a few steps, your legs are too weak to continue and you slump into a chair, but you're restless and after the third nurse has come to ask you if you need help and gone with her tail between her legs, someone else appears._

_Eric looks worried, and as he spots you, his eyes widen and he jogs over._

_"Calleigh, oh my God, what happened?" he asks softly, almost like he's afraid to break you. He looks you up and down, and you know that he's wondering where the nurses are, but he knows you, knows your stubbornness, so he keeps quiet._

_"Eric." You stand, taking a shaky breath, stumbling. "They won't let me into the OR." You swallow hard, feeling your head burning. "I need to get in there. I need—" You trail off, because you know the next words are going to hurt him. "I need to see him," you finish quietly, looking away._

_He tenses perceptibly, but quickly regains his composure. "Listen to me. Are you hurt?" he asks, reaching out to touch your arm._

_"No," you reply, shaking your head. You look down at the blood on your shirt. "This isn't mine."_

_He swallows. "You should get someone to—"_

_"If I wanted to be looked over," you interrupt, getting irrationally irritated, "I would've let that nurse do it. Eric, I'm fine, but he's—" You bring your hand to your forehead to cover your eyes. "I don't think he's gonna—" You trail off again, but this time, you look up, and when you speak again, your voice is full of the desperation that you despise. "He lost so much blood, Eric, so much…"_

_Without hesitation, he pulls you against him, caked blood and all, and you're struggling against him but he knows you better than that, so he doesn't relent and eventually, your body gives in to his embrace. Your pained sobs flood his chest, Jake's blood is staining both of your shirts now, but he doesn't care and that speaks volumes. He holds you until your palms find his abdomen and you're pushing him away, and that's when he knows you need space again, so he loosens his grip and allows you to shake his arms off._

_Feeling vulnerable and exposed and very self-conscious, you take a step back and raise a weary hand toward the small patches of blood on his shirt._

_"I'm sorry I got his blood on your—"_

_"Don't worry," he offers quickly. He smiles a little. "Shirts can be bought. Your safety can't."_

"Calleigh."

Eric's soft, experimental voice snaps you out of your daydream, and you turn toward him. He looks the same shade of worried as that day in the hospital, and in a way, you're thankful for that, thankful for his presence. He knows when to push, knows when to pull and knows when to just wait. He's the one person in your life who's ever known how to handle you when you're scared or worried or nervous, and even though you still shut down around him sometimes, he has a way of opening you up slowly. He's patient, and maybe he's learned that from you, but you love him for always being around when you need him, always waiting. And although four years is an unfair amount of time to ask of him, he's here, standing in front of you with an anxious look on his face, and just seeing him is enough to quell a few demons.

He pulls you into his arms; there's no hesitation anymore, you note, and the inexplicable comfort in that is overwhelming. He doesn't know what's going on and yet he's holding you, whispering unintelligible words into your hair, and maybe he's been here all along, even when the two of you were physically apart.

"Eric," you murmur into his chest. "I don't want to talk."

His lips find your temple and he kisses it softly. "Whenever you're ready, baby," he soothes, "whenever you're ready."

The tenderness in his voice is almost enough to release the barrage of tears that sting the backs of your eyes, but you will yourself not to cry. He must sense your efforts, because he moves his thumb up to stroke your cheek, as if giving you silent permission to release into his arms. You don't, almost_ can't_, and that only adds to the fear, but his small gesture gives you the courage to speak.

"How did you get here?" you ask, pulling your head off his chest to look at him. "I have your car."

He smiles, a little sheepish. "I took one of the Hummers," he replies.

You distance yourself a little from him and stare in disbelief. "With the siren on?" you ask incredulously. When he doesn't reply, you frown. "Eric!"

"Never mind that," he laughs, drawing you close again. He clears his throat. "How are you feeling?" he murmurs, his arms tightening around your midriff.

You take a deep breath, tilt your head back, and your hands find the back of his neck and pull. He closes the distance willingly, his lips finding yours, and you sign inaudibly into his mouth. And damn it, you can even _taste_ the worry on his lips. You wonder what he tastes on yours. Evasion, maybe, and does he know that while you enjoy kissing him, you're mostly doing this to distract yourself and him?

He must, because he stops you gently with a careful push. "Calleigh," he breathes, "I'm not going anywhere."

And you aren't sure why he says that but the sincerity there calms you and for a moment, the fear's gone and you're enveloped in an amazing sense of invincibility.

But only for a moment, because the devastating news rushes back again, and you almost don't want to burden him with this, but then you remember that it's Eric, and that the amount of trust here transcends all feelings of inadequacy, of guilt, of fear.

"You were right," you say slowly.

He runs his fingertip lazily along your jaw line. "About what?"

You catch his eye and bite your lip. "My dad was only trying to protect me."

"What happened?" he asks gently, carefully.

"He—" You swallow, feeling those stubborn tears building up again. "He's really sick. His liver…"

"Oh, Calleigh," he murmurs, pulling you tight against him.

You bury your face into the crook of his neck and rest your lips along the consistent pulse there, and that makes you feel a little less numb. He kisses the top of your head gently and holds you for a long while. Just like before, there are no complications, no need for intricate or tentative words, and you never really realized just how much you had missed this, when your life wasn't dictated by the careful calculations that had gradually sneaked their way in and become too uncomfortably commonplace. With him, there was none of that. Logic rarely seemed a necessity, and there had been no customs to follow, no protocol on how to act, what to say.

With him, every embrace had come naturally, and you regret having lost that over the years, over the countless ticks of jagged hands on analog faces; the more circular the needles spin, the more linear life becomes, and if anybody needs more proof that fate has a sick, twisted sense of humor, they've obviously never met you.

Full circle. This is what it's all about. The pier, it's fitting.

"I'm sorry," he says softly, and you had almost forgotten why you are here, why he had broken protocol to be here with you. Almost.

You pull back and run haphazard forms onto his shoulder with the tip of your finger. "He knew that if I found out, I'd want to get my blood tested for compatibility," you say , not realizing just how dry your throat had become until you had spoken. You swallow, still holding back those tears. "To see if I can be a live donor," you clarify, and immediately, his breath hitches against your forehead.

"You can't give up half your liver," he says in disbelief.

You frown, pulling yourself back a little further. "For my dad? Yeah, I can," you reply with a nod. "It grows back," you add dismissively.

"It's dangerous," he says tightly, and at his own words, he laughs humorlessly.

"Are you saying you wouldn't trade half your liver for your mom? Your dad?" you ask, and you can't stop the next name from slipping past your lips. "Marisol?"

The syllables have their intended effect and he tenses. He looks away and shakes his head. "Marisol wasn't the cause of her cancer," he replies defensively.

"That's unfair, Eric, and really insensitive," you say with a frown, and you almost expect him to scoff at the word 'insensitive,' because it's a pretty good description of what you've just said, but he doesn't. "I don't love him any less because of it," you add quietly.

"You've still got another fifty years to live, Calleigh," he replies flatly.

"And who's to say his twenty years is less valuable than my fifty?" you ask crossly.

He looks ready to retort, but instead swallows and shakes his head. "What about your brothers?"

You sigh. "None of them live near, anymore," you reply with a small shrug.

"So they don't know?" he asks in disbelief, and you know that he doesn't mean to sound so disbelieving, that he'd never purposely grind out his words so roughly, but he looks concerned and angry and just really frustrated all at once.

You move your head from side to side slowly."I don't think so."

"He was just going to keep hiding this from you guys until he—"

"Yeah."

He sighs. "Calleigh." He chuckles mirthlessly and shakes his head. "This is too risky."

"He's my dad, Eric," you say softly, and your heart is stinging again. "He's too low on the transplant list," you add, looking him in the eye. "He's only got a month or two, maybe weeks if I don't do this. Liver dialysis isn't very effective."

"But—"

"You're jumping ahead," you say, cutting him off. "I don't even know if I'm a match." You lean in again, taking in the scent of mild soap, a hint of aftershave and an aroma so strictly _Eric_ that it's soothing. "I just wish you supported me on this," you sigh.

He exhales, loud and long, but holds you against his chest gingerly. "How can I condone putting your life in danger?" he asks, but his tone is softer, and you've got him. You've always got him.

"It's my decision to make," you reply pointedly, trying to grasp the flood of emotions tumbling around inside. "Don't you trust me enough to let me do that?"

"Of course," he affirms quietly, "but Calleigh—"

"Eric, I just need you to be here for me while I go through this." And it's rare for you to speak of need, but you've come to the understanding that it's exactly what you ultimately feel. "If you oppose it, oppose it silently," you add, "because you're not going to change my mind."

"I'm here." He swallows and runs his fingertips along the curve of your neck. "I'm always here."

"I've scheduled an appointment with a team of transplant surgeons. They're supposed to do a full blood work, organ function tests and a couple of scans," you inform him, recalling the phone conversation that had taken place immediately after you had hung up with your father.

"When are you meeting them?" he asks, struggling to keep his tone neutral, but he's always been one to act on emotions and gut, so it's difficult, but he's trying.

"Monday."

He nods slowly. "I'm going to be right there with you, okay?"

"You have work," you reply pointedly.

He shrugs. "I have a lot of vacation time saved up and—"

"You can't," you interject, shaking your head. "Horatio's going to kill you."

"I already did." He laughs. "In fact, he's the one who suggested it."

"Really?" you ask, smiling softly. "But aren't you in trouble with IAB?"

"He sorted that out, too," he replies with a chuckle. "Oh, and the FBI cleared you this morning," he adds. "Even I don't know how H pulled this one off."

"That's good." You pull out of his embrace to look at him. "How much time off do you have?"

"Two and a half weeks," he replies, reaching over to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

The simple yet intimate gesture makes you smile. "So you'll be there?"

He nods. "I'll be there," he affirms.

You take a step toward the railing and lean back against it, resting your weight. "I want to go see him but I'm scared," you confide quietly, and admitting fear is a huge thing for you.

He steps up and mimics you, leans against the railing as well."Where is he?"

"At Mercy," you reply with a dry chuckle. "I can't believe I never realized. He always called from a cell phone, I just figured…" You frown, shaking your head. "You should get back to work. I'm leaving for the hospital now."

"Calleigh," he says softly, "I'm coming with you, okay?"

"I couldn't ask you to do that," you reply with a slight frown.

He takes hold of your arm and tugs gently. "C'mon, let's go."

You pull back and shake your head again. "Your vacation only starts tomorrow."

But he's equally persistent and tugs again, a little harder. "I'm going to return the Hummer and then we'll go," he says, almost matter-of-factly, and this time, you let him pull you off the railing. He smiles victoriously. "Do you mind driving my car to the lab?"

You shake your head and reach up to kiss him softly. "Thank you."

His smile widens. "Where'd you park my car?"

"Far," you reply with a soft laugh. "I tried to take a drive to clear my head, but I could barely see straight, so I parked it a few blocks from here and ended up here." You give him a gentle push. "Go return the Hummer. I'll meet you at the lab."

"You'll be okay driving?" he asks, and the tinge of worry is back.

"I'm not an invalid, Eric," you reply with a short eye-roll.

"I know that," he says, leaning in to kiss your forehead.

"Yeah, I'll be okay," you say, nodding. Pulling back an inch, you plant a soft kiss on his lips but he's a little more insistent and nibbles gently on your upper lip, which elicits a low moan from your throat. He pulls back just as abruptly, though, because he knows that it's not the time.

"I'll see you later," he murmurs, leaning in for a quick, chaste kiss before pulling away and heading off.

Taking a few deep breaths to clear your head, you begin making your way back to where you had parked his car. It's pretty far, and it takes you a while, but you've got plenty to keep your mind occupied, so before you know it, you're pulling into the lab's parking lot, a little worried because you're not sure how many traffic lights you actually stopped at, but you're in one piece, so it couldn't have possibly been that bad.

Eric's already waiting for you and jogs over, climbs in, and it feels a little strange to be sitting in the driver's seat of his car with him as a passenger, but you get over it quickly and without a word, begin the drive to the hospital.

You're pretty sure your driving has seen better hours, but if he's fearing for his life, he's not showing it, and you remember Miami well enough to navigate your way to Mercy. It's too soon, too fast, and it almost feels like no time has elapsed between the lab and the hospital, because you're walking through the lobby, up the elevator, down the hall, and you stop in front of the door with _K. Duquesne_ scribbled messily on the little card and stare at the loopy letters that spell your father's name, _your_ name. You're frozen there, paralyzed with anxiety.

"Do you want me to wait outside?" Eric asks gently, his hand never leaving the small of your back.

"No," you reply, shaking your head a little more violently than you had intended, "come in with me."

"Okay," he nods, "I'm here."

You reach for his hand and he pulls you to him and holds you for a brief moment, just long enough to let you know that he means what he says.

"Do you think—" You trail off and swallow. "A few times, when I called him, he wouldn't pick up. Do you think he was on dialysis?"

"Calleigh," he sighs, "I don't know, but you can't worry about that right now, okay?"

"Once, I heard a female voice and bugged him about his 'new girlfriend,' but in hindsight, it was probably a nurse." Shaking your head, you push down a wave of guilt. "I can't believe how insensitive I was."

"You didn't know," he says gently. "There was no way for you to know, Cal, and you're going to drive yourself insane with what you could or couldn't have done. He needs you now, okay?" He kisses your temple, then plants a soft one on your nose. "Ready?"

You nod and, with the help of his silent support, you manage to build up the courage to push the door open and enter.

Kenwall Duquesne is lying in a hospital bed, his eyes closed, and from far away, a captured photograph would have shown a man peacefully resting, but the more you approach his bedside, the more reality sets in, and you realize that his sleep is fitful, his breathing labored, and how did you manage to miss that during phone conversations? You've never seen him so frail, and despite the constant reminder that your father is not a perfect man, this is the first time you've really ever seen him this helpless and vulnerable.

Eric pulls you a chair and helps you sit down, because there's a disconnect and your brain isn't processing anything. He pulls one up for himself and sits beside you.

Your father opens his eyes and smiles. "Lamb Chop," he greets softly, and it's the same voice you remember from the rare bedtime stories, the fishing trips, the late-night phone conversations, but the knowledge of his condition has changed the timber somewhat, and you hear the sadness, the fear, maybe the regret.

"Dad…" you murmur, approaching to press a kiss against his forehead. Your father's warm, clammy skin is too much, and the first tear rolls down your cheek and plunks onto his pillow. You wipe away at it with the back of your hand, but another one follows, and another, and another, and you're sobbing quietly even though you want nothing more than to be strong for him.

He reaches up to stroke your cheek. "I didn't want you to have to see me like this," he says, straining to sit up.

"Don't move," you request, moving to touch his arm, the tears flowing consistently now because you're too tired, too drained to even try to hold back.

"Calleigh, don't cry," he croaks, and you know that he's moments away from tearing up as well. "I'm sorry I upset you."

You shake your head and wipe at your tears again. "How are you feeling?" you ask, swallowing hard.

He smiles a little at that. "Great, now that I got to see your pretty face."

You let out a short, tearful laugh. "You should've told me you were…" You swallow again. "You should've told me," you finish quietly.

He closes his eyes and turns to face the ceiling. "I didn't want you worryin' for no reason."

"Daddy…" And suddenly, you're twelve again, at your grandfather's bedside and you're confused, unable to grasp the concept of sickness, of death, of the inexplicable ache in your heart. It never gets easier. Experience doesn't do anything to soothe the bitter taste of the inevitable end that everyone faces, and it's unfair, really, but labeling it as such does nothing to unclench your chest.

Eric's hand is resting on your thigh and you reach over to grip it tightly.

"I talked to some doctors about a liver donation and they're going to run some tests—"

At that, his eyes snap open and he stares straight at you. "I'm not accepting a donation from you, Lamb Chop," he says sharply, shaking his head. "You've got too much ahead of you to risk your life for this here old man."

"The operation's safe, Dad," you cajole softly.

The hard look on his face doesn't change, and he shakes his head again. "Cuttin' into your body's dangerous, no matter what those surgeons say." He looks past you at Eric. "Young man, talk some sense into this lady."

Eric smiles tightly. "I tried, sir."

"Well, try harder." Your father frowns and turns back to you. "Calleigh, I'm not letting you do this, and don't try none of your CSI tricks on me."

"Dad." Deciding you'll deal with this topic later, you opt for a safer line. "Have you talked to Mama?"

He nods. "She was here two days ago."

"She kept it from me, too?" you ask incredulously, your voice rising. Though you spoke to your mother a lot less, it surprises you that she hadn't mentioned it.

"Don't be angry with her, Lamb Chop," he requests. "I told her not to say anything and she agreed that it's best you don't have that responsibility."

"And what did the two of you think would happen when I did find out?" you snap back, unable to contain your rising anger. "I'd just ignore the fact that you're—" You trail off there, because it's impossible to finish that sentence. "You should've told me," you finish quietly. "I could've been here."

"Don't be silly. You were here the whole time," he says softly, pulling your hand to rest on his chest.

Holding back tears again, you envelope your father's hand in yours and cradle it gently. "Dad, if I'm a match, I'm going to give you a bit of my liver. You'll be okay in—"

"Calleigh, I told you, I'm not letting you do this," he says sternly. "Don't waste your time and energy getting consulting sessions and blood tests done, because nobody's going to cut my Lamb Chop open."

"Daddy, please…" you whisper, feeling tears stain your cheeks again."Why are you doing this?"

He reaches up to swipe a few tears away and smiles sadly. "Maybe you'll understand when you have children."

And the comment is innocent, but the guilt rolls against your insides again. Eric senses this and squeezes your hand tightly.

"Calleigh, you should go," your father says suddenly, almost like he's grown uncomfortable speaking to you, but then his voice softens. "I'm sorry about all this. Don't be angry."

"I'm not," you reply, shaking your head. "Dad, I'm not angry with you. Don't ever think that."

He smiles a little at that. "Sweetheart, I'm not scared. I've lived a good life, a full life. I must've done something right to deserve you, right?" He musters the energy to wink playfully at you.

"Don't say that," you plead, your tears coming full-force now. "Don't—" Bringing your hand to cover your mouth and stifle a sob, you close your eyes for a moment, trying desperately not to weep openly. "You're not—"

"I love you so much, Lamb Chop," he offers genuinely. It's raw, it's open, it's everything your father isn't, and maybe that's why it means so much more, but your chest tightens, because it's so damn unfair that this new side of your father only appears after he's become bedridden.

But that's the Duquesne way, isn't it? It takes dramatic events to alter the stoic form, crumble a few precariously-built walls, and when push comes to shove, it's nearly almost too late.

"I love you, too, Daddy," you murmur, running a quick palm over your moist cheeks. "I'm gonna stay here tonight, okay?"

He shakes his head immediately. "As much as I enjoy your company, I know you've got plenty to do." He forces a small smile. "Calleigh, the whole reason why I kept this from you was because I know you. You and that big heart of yours. I don't want you to put your life on hold for me." He sighs deeply, a little regretfully. "I'm sorry I was so angry when you first told me you were in Miami. I panicked."

Before you can respond to that, a nurse rushes through the door, flipping through a packet of papers. "Duke, it's time to—" He looks up to see the three of you there, and his face flushes. "I–I'm sorry, I didn't know you had company," he stammers, taking a few clumsy steps back.

"It's okay, Cayden," your father pipes up, pushing himself up to a sitting position. He turns to you and smiles sadly. "I'm scheduled for dialysis," he whispers, as if the impact is inversely proportional to the volume of his voice.

It's not, and _God_, it hurts, physical hurts like hell to see your father this way, and when he leans over and kisses your forehead softly, the ache intensifies, because as selfish as it sounds, it's so much easier to watch a stranger dying. You handle death every day in your work, but there's a divide between professional and personal that prevents you from treating this like a case, which is a good thing, proving that you have human emotion, that you can feel the impact of an unavoidable loss, but it's no easier to swallow, and it twists you up inside so much that you'd trade human traits for the ability to compartmentalize this as well.

The nurse Cayden helps your father out of bed and into a wheelchair. Before he's pushed out of the room, your father turns to you once more. "If you're still here by the time I get back, you're going to be in major trouble, young lady," he says jokingly, and there's the little glimmer in his eyes that you remember. "I'll need rest after the dialysis, so it's best if you come back another day." He pauses, as if contemplating his next words. "Calleigh," he adds quietly, "_tempus fugit_."

Biting your lip hard, you nod and manage a croaky 'I know' before he disappears out the door and a new flood of tears assaults your cheeks, and you've neither the energy nor the will to hold them back.

Wordlessly, Eric shifts his chair a little closer and draws you into his arms. You close your eyes, and your head finds the niche of his neck. You rest it there for the comfort it provides you, and he's whispering something that you can't make out, but it's gentle and soothing and everything that you need from him in that moment.

After a few minutes, your tears begin to subside and you rediscover your voice. "I need to get out of here," you murmur, "but I don't want to leave him."

"We can come back tomorrow," he suggests, shifting to kiss your forehead. "Can I make you lunch?"

You lift yourself off him and nod quickly. He stands and helps you up, kisses you softly on the cheek, but when he takes your hand and starts toward the door, you stop him.

"Eric, wait." You laugh lightly. "I look like hell," you say, running the back of your free palm over your still-moist cheeks.

He gives you a pointed look. "Calleigh." He smiles and moves his hands up to cup your face, runs his thumbs carefully across your tear-streaked cheeks a few times. "For the record, you look really hot," he murmurs playfully, and you have to smile at that.

You allow him to lead you out of the room and toward the elevator. The whole time, he's making conversation about what's changed at MDPD, what hasn't, who's new, and who isn't. There's very little that you manage to take in, but by the time he's on the new guy at trace who likes wearing his lab coat inside-out on Wednesdays, just to screw with people's heads, he has you bucked into the passenger's seat of his car.

As he pulls out of the hospital parking lot, he begins talking about the patrol cop who lost his sight in a freak accident, and it's a funny story, but your mind's either running too fast or too slow, but either way, it has difficulty keeping up.

"He's going to die," you hear yourself saying, and it's rude to interrupt, but you're not thinking very clearly and he doesn't seem to mind.

"There are always anonymous donations," he replies. "He can—"

You stare straight at him. "No, he can't," you say, and your voice is panicky, as if you've only just come to the realization. "He doesn't have time to wait for hundreds of people with healthy livers who signed their donor cards to pass away. The numbers just aren't there."

Eric shakes his head. "Calleigh, this isn't your fault."

"Then why do I feel so guilty?" you ask rhetorically. "If I just figured it out earlier—"

"He wouldn't have let you do this either way," Eric replies pointedly, sighing loudly. "He has the final say," he adds, and there's it is in its simplest form.

Still, your head is spinning wildly. "He would accept an organ, _life_, from an anonymous person, but not from his own daughter," you state flatly.

"He's trying to protect you," Eric replies softly, and for a split second, you wonder if he's actually glad that your father's being difficult, but no, there's no rationality in that thought, so you dismiss it quickly.

"I just want him to be alive and healthy," you mumble, looking down at your hands resting idly on your lap.

"He wants the same of you," Eric replies gently, and the car comes to a stop at a red light.

"But I'm not going to die from this surgery," you protest, looking up at him.

"There's always a chance something could go wrong," he replies, trying his best to stay unemotional. "And no matter what, there'll be long-lasting effects, mild or otherwise. You don't walk away from a live donation scot-free, Calleigh, and your dad knows this."

You rest your head in your hands, palms pressed against your temples. The seatbelt presses against your neck. "If he could only see it from my point of view…"

"But can you see it from his?" he cuts in, a little too loudly. Your head snaps up, and he sighs. "Calleigh, imagine if—" He pauses, studies you curiously. Finally, he swallows, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low. "Barring personal choices, imagine if you had a little girl. A beautiful little girl with blond curls and green eyes." He takes a moment to watch your reaction, and he's careful, because he knows it's a touchy topic. "Can you picture that?"

"I hope she has your brown eyes," you interject thoughtfully, without really realizing what you've said until the words have left your lips.

His mouth opens in surprise. "She—" He smiles knowingly. "She can have brown eyes, sure."

"Hypothetically," you say quickly, a little nervously, and he probably picks up on it, but you're not trying too hard to hide it anyway. A small flush creeps up your cheeks and you have to look away.

"Hypothetically," he repeats, nodding slowly, but as the light turns green again and he steps on the gas pedal, an amused grin spreads across his face. "Blond hair, brown eyes." His smile widens at the thought. "Would you let a doctor cut her open, risk her life and cause her pain and discomfort, probably shortening her life span by a few years, just so you can live an extra ten?"

"No, never," you reply immediately, and the revelation is the strangest mixture of understanding and guilt. It nearly knocks the wind out of you.

"So you understand your father's hesitation."

"I'm not ready to lose him," you whisper, your voice strained.

"I know," he replies, and time spent with Eric always seems to pass too fast, because he's pulling into his parking space already.

Silently, the two of you step out of the car simultaneously and walk into the building, up the stairs and as he digs into his pocket for his key, you stop him. Smiling, you take out the keychain that he had handed you that morning and pick out the one he had said was to the front door. When you push the key into the lock and twist it, and the door swings open, it just feels so _right_.

After removing his shoes, he makes his way to the kitchen and you can hear him busying himself with the lunch he had promised you.

The first thing you do is take a quick trip to the bathroom to wash up. You hate crying, but even you have to admit that today had warranted it, and release is healthy, because bottling it up inside has never helped before.

Leaving the bathroom, you decide to take this time to re-familiarize yourself with his apartment. Admittedly, you hadn't seen much of it last night, and at the thought, your cheeks heat up. You take the time to stop at picture frames, using the photos inside them to try to assemble a timeline of changes in his life in the past four years. A digital frame resting on his coffee table is especially telling, and as you watch the pictures of his sisters, his parents, people you recognize from the lab and people you've never seen before, you realize how much you've missed. After watching the entire slideshow twice, you find yourself gravitating toward the kitchen.

When you enter, he's setting the table, and a delicious smell is wafting from his sandwich grill.

He looks up and smiles. "I wanted to make you some _empanadas_, too, but I only had cold cuts and I figured it would've taken too long."

"You know your Cuban sandwiches are my favorite though," you reply with a smile of your own.

His sandwich grill dings softly and he moves over to remove the fresh sandwiches, which he places on plates that he deposits onto the table.

"Lunch is served," he says proudly.

You take a seat at the table and begin digging in; he does the same, and both of you are starving so you eat in relative silence. Your mind wanders to your father again, but you force yourself to push that aside, at least for the rest of the day, because you can't let this dictate your life. As you're finishing up, you clear your throat.

"I didn't have time to go apartment shopping," you say, studying his reaction carefully.

He looks up from his sandwich and watches you for a moment. "You know my door's always open," he replies. "If–If you're ready," he adds, stuttering a little.

"My stuff's at Valera's," you say, half as a protest, and half as something to fill the space while you chew on the suggestion that you had known would come.

"I can drop by," he offers hopefully. "Pick them up."

You nod slowly. "Yeah, okay."

"So you're okay staying here?" he asks tentatively, and you can understand his hesitation. He exhales silently. "I don't want to—"

"Do you know how long it took me to get a good night's sleep after I moved to Boston?" you interrupt, looking down at your plate. Your fingers push the crumbs around for a few moments before you look up at him again. "Months, Eric."

"Cal—"

"After last night, I'm pretty sure I can't fall asleep without—" You trail off and let the silence fill in the missing words.

He smiles. "I don't think she gets off until five today," he remarks, checking his watch. "Hey, we never did make use of my watch last night," he adds, raising his eyebrow suggestively.

"I don't think we had to," you reply coolly. "Could've accomplished the same measurement with a decibel meter."

"I wasn't _that_ loud," he replies in mock indignation.

Playfully ignoring him, you pop the last bit of your sandwich into your mouth and begin chewing. He scowls.

"You know, we're supposed to have dinner with Alexx this weekend," you comment.

"Yeah, you up for it?" he asks, stuffing the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and collecting the plates.

"Of course," you reply. "I'll call her later."

He nods, stands and carries the dishes over to the sink. He leaves them in there and leans against the counter. "So, where to?"

"It's almost three. We might as well hang around here until Valera finishes shift," you point out. "I'm not really in the mood to go anywhere right now," you add with a little too much melancholy for your tastes.

He nods again. Heading out the kitchen, he can't help but tease you one more time.

"We can watch those movies we missed last night," he suggests with a cheeky smile.


	15. Chapter 15: Eric

A/N: There is an NC-17 version of this chapter. Again, link is in my profile. The following is the PG-13 version.

* * *

**Chapter 15: Eric**

"I can't believe you own all seven Harry Potter movies," Calleigh murmurs tiredly, stifling a yawn, as the closing credits to The Chamber of Secrets begins to roll.

You chuckle. "I can't believe you wanted to watch them," you shoot back, and you think she probably knows that you've been staring at her the whole time. Difficult not to though, when she's lying on top of you on the couch, blond hair flowing across your chest, at ease for the first time today. Witches and wizards; a nice distraction.

She turns her head and rests her chin against your sternum. "We should probably go see Valera," she suggests.

You nod, carefully pushing yourself up. "Yeah, okay."

As Calleigh moves to the bathroom to freshen up, you pull out your phone and dial Valera's number.

"It's Eric," you say when she picks up. "We were just plan—"

"I want details!" Valera interrupts loudly, apparently unable to contain herself.

You chuckle, taking a quick look toward the bathroom door and imagining all the different ways Calleigh would kill you if you shared. Besides, last night had been a little messy and complicated, emotionally, at least, and no, Valera definitely did not need to know.

"What makes you think there are details?" you ask, feigning ignorance.

"Oh, come on, Eric," she whines. "There's makeup sex, and then there's hello-I-haven't-seen-you-in-four-years sex." She pauses, then eagerly asks, "So, how was it?"

"Valera, you're so annoying," you reply, imitating irritation. "I'm not telling you anything."

"But—"

"No." Looking up, you see Calleigh standing there, giving you an amused look, so you clear your throat. "Anyway, we'll be over in twenty minutes." Without waiting for a reply, you add, "Bye, Valera," and hang up.

You stand up and motion awkwardly at your phone. "Valera wanted to know, uh—"

"Yeah," Calleigh replies, smiling thoughtfully. "Not surprised that she still does that." She pauses and motions toward the door. "Do you still have my shoes?" she asks. "The ones I left here."

You slip your phone back into your pocket. "Yeah, there's a pair in the closet at the entrance," you reply, remembering how you couldn't bring yourself to throw them out and how it had taken you months before you could even remove them from the shoe rack.

She seems to sense a change in your demeanor, so wordlessly, she walks over and digs around until she comes up with her shoes. She slips them on and picks up the pair that she had worn to your date last night.

"These are actually Valera's," she explains as you approach her. She smiles. "Ready to go?"

You nod, and minutes later, you're pulling out onto the street. The drive to Valera's is quiet. Calleigh's fiddling with the radio, though she doesn't seem to be paying much attention to what stations she's passing, only that it's something for her hands to be occupied with. You are just about to ask her what's on her mind when she speaks.

"When my brothers argued about what to listen to in the car, my dad used to let me decide," she says, giving you a look that you catch with your peripheral vision. "He said that gentlemen should always respect a lady's wishes."

"Your father's a good man, Calleigh." You're not sure how that helps – should do the opposite, in fact – but she nods, and you're driving so you don't get a chance to study her reaction.

"I was thinking," she continues, "that it would be easier if I had been here the whole time and had more time to process and prepare for this, but somehow I don't think it would."

You steal a quick look. "I don't think so either," you reply gently.

She nods. "It's just… you never really _know_, you know?" She tugs at her seat belt. "Sickness, I mean. Or-or death," she finishes quietly.

"Calleigh—"

"No, I don't want to talk about it," she interjects. "I just wanted to get that out there because… I don't know."

As the car pulls up to a red light, your right hand leaves the steering wheel for a moment to pat her leg. "That's why we do whatever we want now, while we're alive and healthy, okay?"

She rests her hand over yours and studies it sadly. "I'm reluctant to make promises," she replies softly. "I broke every single one I made to you."

"I don't want a promise," you reassure. You give her hand a squeeze and return your attention to the road. "I just want today."

She touches your arm and smiles. "You can have today."

The rest of the ride is spent in quiet contemplation, and soon, you're pulling up to Valera's apartment. Calleigh steps out first, and the two of you make your way to Valera's door in silence. Calleigh knocks.

Valera's door opens. "You!" she exclaims, eyes wide. She looks back and forth between you and Calleigh. "And _you_!" she adds, placing her hands on Calleigh's arms. She lowers her voice suggestively. "I told you he wouldn't be able to keep his—"

"Valera," Calleigh interrupts, clearing her throat, a flush creeping up her cheeks.

Valera grins. "So you guys had a good night?"

"We're, uh, we're here to pick up Calleigh's stuff," you say, trying to change the subject.

"Here are your shoes," Calleigh adds, dropping them just inside the doorway.

Valera's eyes light up. "Damn, it was _that _good?"

Calleigh smiles. "Valera, my stuff?"

"Oh God, you guys are such prudes. If I had really hot sex, I'd tell you about it." She glances hopefully at you, then Calleigh, who is throwing her a disapproving look. Valera sighs. "Right, your stuff. The bag's in the living room. Come on in."

Valera steps aside to allow you and Calleigh to enter before closing the door behind her.

"So you guys sure that you don't want to divulge any details?" Valera asks as a last-ditch effort. When neither of you offer anything, she exaggerates a sigh and walks past you toward her couch. Calleigh's duffel bag is sitting next to it. Valera picks up the bag and brings it over. "Hey, why don't you guys stay for dinner? I'll order pizza, and I think I have some mojito mix." She smiles and waggles her eyebrows suggestively. "Unless you've got other plans."

You look over at Calleigh, who nods. "Yeah, I'll stick around," she says.

You turn to Valera. "Me too, but mojitos are girl drinks," you declare, "especially those made from flavored mixes. Got any beer?"

Valera rolls her eyes. "Yes, I've got beer," she replies, placing Calleigh's bag near the door and leading the two of you toward her kitchen.

And so, after the mojitos are mixed and the pizza delivered, the three of you settle down in Valera's living room and she pops in a DVD. Some chick flick, but nobody's really watching it. Valera starts asking Calleigh a lot of questions and thankfully, they aren't sex-related. Most of her responses you already know (how long she's staying, if she's going to work at the lab again, what happened in Raleigh), but it's nice to see Calleigh having something to keep her mind off her father.

And Valera… is a bad drunk. You know that and Calleigh knows that and you're pretty sure Valera herself knows that, but it doesn't stop her from drinking. And that's why, by the time she's finished her sixth glass, not only have her questions turned absurd, she can barely pronounce the words well enough to ask them. As she reaches over for a seventh refill, Calleigh stops her.

"Okay, I think that's enough for today, Maxine."

Valera giggles. "You look kinda funny," she slurs, trying to prod Calleigh's face with her fingers and missing by a good half-foot.

Calleigh looks over at you. "Eric, help me get her to bed."

"Calleigh, I'm _fine_," Valera says, dragging out the last word. "I'm not weepy. I mean, sweepy." She frowns and tries again. "Sweepy. Sweepy. Sleepy."

Calleigh smiles, and you move over to help her pull Valera to her feet.

Valera attempts to push you and Calleigh's hands off. "I can walk," she says confidently, and she can, just not very gracefully, but she looks ready to bite the next person who tries to guide her, so the two of you watch as she stumbles toward her bedroom.

Calleigh follows her, presumably to make sure Valera doesn't collapse before making it to bed, and you turn off the abandoned movie and begin cleaning up, gathering up glasses and bottles and the pizza box and bringing them to the kitchen. Leaving the stuff there, you return just in time to see Calleigh walking out.

She approaches you. "I should've stopped her after four," she says with a knowing smile. "Those things were surprisingly strong."

You chuckle. "Knowing Valera, that was probably ninety percent rum."

She laughs and moves to the door to pick up her duffel bag. "We should head back," she suggests. "How much did you have to drink?"

"Just one beer," you reply, slipping on your shoes and following her out. "I'm good to drive."

She nods and after she closes and locks Valera's door, the two of you make your way back to the car.

The drive back is quiet as well, but this silence stems from exhaustion rather than uneasy reflections. Her head is resting against the window the whole time, and when the car comes to a full stop in front of your building and the two of you exit, she doesn't even fuss about who should carry her bag.

"I'm gonna give my dad a call," she says as soon as she steps into your apartment.

"Okay," you reply, handing her your phone.

She wanders off for some privacy, and you bring her duffel to your bedroom and place it at the foot of your bed. You find your way back to your living room and flip on the TV, catching some sports footage.

Just as the baseball highlights draws to a close, Calleigh appears beside you, looking drained. You turn off the television as she plops down on the couch beside you and buries her face into your chest, her arm draped loosely over your abdomen. She's breathing hard into your shirt, and you know she doesn't want you to speak yet, so you tilt your head to press a quick, reassuring kiss into her hair.

"Calleigh."

She adjusts herself so that her face is visible, but she keeps her cheek against your chest. "I'm fine," she dismisses.

"I know," you say with a nod. You tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "I know that, okay?"

She sighs heavily and looks up at you. "How did you handle it with Marisol?" she asks. Immediately, she shakes her head and looks back down. "I'm sorry, that's a really selfish question."

There's still a twinge of pain at the mention of your sister's name, but it's easy to suppress when you know that Calleigh needs your answer more. "I had you," you reply, smiling thoughtfully. "Those calls at all hours of the day and night. We'd talk about anything, everything, sometimes even nothing, but it kept me sane. Remember that?"

She nods. "Yeah."

"Yeah," you echo. "I talked to other people, too, but mostly, they wanted to know how I was handling it, and when I said I was fine, it was a weight off their shoulders, but you… I think you already _knew_ how I was handling it." She looks up at you and smiles softly, and your hand finds hers. "You knew that I just wanted confirmation that the world kept turning after her death, that things were still the way things were, that _we _were still who _we_ were." Giving her hand a reassuring squeeze, you continue, "Those ordinary conversations reminded me that there was something else, _someone_ else in this world who understood."

"Eric…"

You smile, allowing your lips to graze her forehead. "I'll be here to give you the same reminder."

She pushes herself up and leans in to kiss you softly, her hands finding a way to frame your face. "Have I ever told you that you're perfect?" she whispers.

"Not recently," you tease, smiling.

She kisses you again. "I love you," she murmurs.

Your smile widens, and your heart still makes that little jump. "I love you more."

She leans in for another kiss but ends up yawning inches from your face. "Oh gosh, I'm sorry," she says with an embarrassed smile, hand going to cover her mouth.

You sit up and pull her hand away, reaching to kiss her thoroughly, all lips and tongue, tasting rum with the tiniest hint of lime. Breaking away, you run the pad of your thumb across her cheek. "Been a long day," you say. "Wanna go to bed?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Is that an invitation for something else, Delko?" she teases. She leans in. "Not very discreet," she whispers into your ear.

Swallowing, you grasp for any semblance of self-control. "No, _Duquesne_," you shoot back, your husky tone betraying your arousal. "I'm genuinely concerned about your sleeping patterns."

Smiling, she stands and pulls you up with her. She leads you to…

Your bathroom. Okay.

She's trying to hide that little smirk, but you do your best to pretend like you haven't been caught off guard, so when she prepares to brush her teeth, you do the same. After finishing with her bedtime routine, which hasn't changed in four years, she walks into your bedroom and rummages around in her duffel bag, finding a white tank top and a pair of light green briefs and changing into them right in front of you.

But of course, just as you should've expected, when she climbs into bed and you eagerly follow, she doesn't try anything, and more importantly, she doesn't give you permission to try anything. It's a little frustrating until you notice how tired she looks, and then her sleep really does become your primary concern.

You lie on your side and draw her close, and the way her body fits so perfectly into yours never fails to amaze you. She tangles a leg between yours, adjusts her stomach so that it lies flat against yours, and she breathes in deeply, face buried in your neck.

"'Night, Cal," you murmur.

Her response is barely intelligible, but it sounds too much like 'I love you' to be anything else.

You smile, pressing your lips to the top of her head and letting them linger there for a moment, breathing in a mixture of aromas that lull you to a deep sleep.

-/-/-

She's already awake when you open your eyes, though judging from the darkness, it's not quite morning yet. Her head is comfortably cocooned between your shoulder and your cheek, her fingers playing absentmindedly with the end of your sleeve.

She senses your consciousness immediately, shifts to look at you and offers a lazy smile. "It's three in the morning, Eric. Go back to sleep."

You want to ask her how long she's been awake, but instead, you press a quick kiss to her hair. "What are you thinking about?"

"You," she replies immediately. She smiles and closes her eyes, adjusting herself to lie closer still. "Us," she adds. "I'm really glad you found me."

"Me too," you reply, really meaning it.

She pushes the covers down and slips her hands underneath your shirt. They're warm, and her fingers are comfortingly familiar as they slide up along your abs, to your chest, and down again. They rest there for a moment, and you can feel her fingertip gently trailing the scar on your abdomen.

"You never told me how you got that," she whispers, and she sounds like she's almost afraid of the answer.

Your hand reaches down to pat hers through the fabric of your shirt. "Three, maybe four months ago, there was a triple homicide at the bodega. I was on call, so I showed up at the scene and started collecting evidence. The perimeter wasn't secured properly, I guess, and the perp came back waving around a nine-mil." You swallow, and a flash of that day returns. You shake it away and continue, "He, uh, he got a shot in before he was gunned down. Pretty good shot, too, considering he was damn far away, but I was lucky. It missed everything important and came out the other side."

She tenses against you and shivers. "How can it miss everything if it hit you in the abdomen?" she asks quietly, and there's unwarranted worry in her voice.

"Well," you reply thoughtfully, "it nicked my intestine, I think." You give her hand a quick squeeze. "I don't know, everything was kind of a blur."

"Eric," she murmurs, her hand withdrawing from your skin like it could burn her. "God, did it hurt?"

You shake your head. "Nah, the adrenaline kept me going until the hospital and then they pumped me full of drugs. Didn't even have to have surgery," you recall, and that seems to relax her a little. "They just cleaned it and stitched me up, gave me some antibiotics to prevent infection. I was barely in the hospital for four days, and that's only because H made me."

She's feeling guilty again, you can tell, but there's not much you can do when she gets this way, so you kiss her softly on the forehead and give her some time to recollect her thoughts and push the regret out of her system. She thoughtfully watches you for a little while, fingers finding your scar again and stroking gently.

Then, something in her eyes changes, and she leans in to kiss you, long and attentive, her lips urgent. She lifts your shirt toward your head, and without leaving her lips, you raise your upper torso for a moment to help her remove it. She tosses it aside, her fingers moving faster now along exposed skin, her tongue peeking out to taste you, mingling. Slowly, she pushes herself up and climbs over you, straddles you, and you can't help but let out a grunt when she rolls her hips against yours.

She bends down and hovers her face inches from yours. "Where are your handcuffs?" she whispers, a sly smile forming on her lips.

Your eyes widen. "What?"

"Your handcuffs," she repeats, and her tone is so natural that for a moment, you think she does not mean anything suggestive, but then she takes your hands and pins them together over your head, and yeah, there's no ambiguity there.

"They're—" It's suddenly difficult to conjure coherent thought or speech, as the anticipation gets the best of you. "I don't know, fuck, the dresser," you murmur. "Top drawer, I think there's a pair, but—"

She silences you with a soft kiss, then gets up and walks over to your dresser. She pokes around for a little bit and extracts a pair, then returns with a scheming look in her eyes. She straddles you again, this time your chest, and she has that primal smell that informs you she's hiding her desire a lot better than you ever could. When you reach a hand out to stroke her, however, she pushes it back and pins it above your head roughly.

"Calleigh, Jesus," you hiss, suddenly feeling a little light-headed.

"Stay still," she admonishes, carefully weaving your arms under your pillow and locking the handcuffs in place. She leans down to kiss you, and your hands instinctively jerk. She smiles against your lips and trails her fingers along your arms. "Is this okay?" she asks innocently, her leg pressing hard against your groin.

"You're killing me," you groan, shifting underneath her weight for some friction. You attempt to tug your arms loose a few times, and to your surprise, you realize that it's not very difficult to break away. "You know that I can pull my hands out, right?"

"You won't," she replies simply, a glint of mischievousness flashing across her eyes, and her confidence has always been one of the sexiest things about her.

She presses her lips to your cheek, trailing kisses down your jaw, neck, nipping lightly across skin until she reaches your navel. Her fingertips follow the trail of dark hair...


	16. Chapter 16: Calleigh

**Chapter 16: Calleigh**

"I need to get some groceries," Eric announces after breakfast the next day while flipping through the sports section of the Miami Herald.

"I think I'm going to visit my dad," you reply, finishing up your toast. "Maybe after lunch."

He looks up. "Want me to come along?"

"Nah, I'll be alright." Standing, you pick up the plates and move to the sink to wash them. "I have to call Alexx, too, to arrange that dinner. When are you free?"

He leaves his newspaper behind to help you with the dishes. "Anytime," he replies. He chuckles when you shoot him an unconvinced look. "Really, anytime," he insists.

"Eric," you sigh, "I don't want you to put your life on hold just because I'm here."

"Hey, you're staying, right?" he asks, thought you're not quite sure what that has to do with anything.

You nod. "My stuff's getting moved over, my apartment's getting rented out, so yes, I'm staying."

"Okay, so how am I putting my life on hold?" he asks with a quick wink. He leans over and lands a quick kiss on your cheek. "This is my life now."

You can't suppress the grin that spreads across your face. His point makes you a lot giddier than it probably should've, and for some reason, it doesn't scare you. It sounds nice, the way he had put it. And when you really think about it, this is the way it should be. It feels too _right_ for it not to be.

"I also have to call a couple of my friends to let them know what's going on," you add, finishing up with the plates. "And I guess I'll get started on that transfer request. My old boss wants something official by Monday."

He dries his hands and begins to pour you a second cup of coffee. "Are you getting your own place?"

"Are you kicking me out?" you shoot back playfully.

He chuckles, pulling you into his arms. "Might consider it if you keep handcuffing me," he murmurs, leaning in to kiss you. He trails his fingers down your cheek as he does so, and you tilt your head up to grant him the best possible angle.

Before he can do much more, you pull away and smile. "You enjoyed it," you whisper, your arms snaking around him.

"Would've enjoyed it a lot more if you let he handcuff _you_," he complains, planting a lazy kiss on your nose.

You laugh softly. "Not happening anytime soon," you tease, detaching yourself from him and using his disorientation to pull his cell phone out of his pocket. "I need Alexx's number," you explain.

He nods. "Might as well use my phone to call, too."

Flipping it open, you quickly locate Alexx's home number and press Eric's phone to your ear. A few rings later, a young female voice – definitely not Alexx's – answers.

"Could I speak to Alexx please," you request politely, your heart suddenly pounding when you realize that you are probably speaking to Alexx's daughter for the first time in what seems like ages.

Thankfully, if it even is her, she doesn't seem to catch your anxiety or recognize your voice. "Sure," she replies pleasantly. There's a short, muffled conversation, then Alexx's voice comes across the line.

"Dr. Woods," she greets, all seriousness.

"Hey, Alexx," you reply. "It's Calleigh."

Immediately, she places her professionalism aside. "Oh, hey, honey. I was worried you weren't going to call."

"No, I just got caught up with… things," you reply, cringing at your words, hating that they sounded so much like another weak excuse. Too firm a reminder of the first time around.

Alexx seems to pick up on the tension. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, everything's good." You watch as Eric wanders out of the kitchen to give you some privacy, though you hadn't really needed any. "I was just calling to see how things were with you. How are the kids?"

"Well, that was Janie you just spoke to," she mentions, confirming your suspicion. "They don't know you're in Miami yet. I wasn't sure how long you'd be staying."

There's melancholy there, and you can't help but think it has something to do with her not wanting to disappoint her children in case you decide to run off again. You suddenly wish Eric was still in the room with you.

"Alexx, I—" Hesitating, you decide to chase a different route completely. "Couple days ago, you mentioned dinner, and I'd really love to take you up on that offer."

"Oh, of course. Does tomorrow work for you?" she asks. "It'll be Sunday and Charlie wants to try out his new barbeque."

"Yeah," you nod, "I'd like that."

"Is it okay if I call Eric and ask him to join us?" she pries, almost as if in search of something.

"He's, um, he's here with me," you reveal, chuckling lightly. As if on cue, Eric wanders back into the kitchen and heads to the fridge. "I'm staying at his place for a while," you add, instinctively gravitating toward him.

"Of course you are," Alexx replies knowingly. "Ask him if he's free."

Bringing the phone away from your face for a second, you run your hand down Eric's arm to catch his attention. "Dinner tomorrow night at Alexx's."

He leans over and kisses you softly. "I'll be there."

Pressing the phone back to your ear, you grin gleefully. "He'll be there," you relay to Alexx.

"Wonderful," she replies. There's shuffling at the other end, words you can't make out. "I hate to have to break this short, but I have to give Bryan a ride to basketball practice. We're already running a little late. I'll see you tomorrow, honey?"

"Oh, I didn't mean to keep you. Later, Alexx."

You close the phone, but before you even have a chance to return the phone to Eric, he has you pressed against the counter. Laughing, you slip his phone back into his pocket and pat his cheek, feeling stubble underneath your palm.

"You're not getting lucky this morning," you inform him, but that does little to deter his attempts.

He leans in and begins kissing your neck, his hands keeping your hips still. "Says you," he murmurs.

Pushing him away gently, you smile. "Well, if you are, it's not going to be with me," you say playfully.

It still doesn't seem to have any effect, and as he kisses you again and slowly explores your mouth, you can feel the control slipping away. He drags his lips downward, neck, shoulder, collarbone, and he presses his groin firmly against you, letting you know exactly how he plans to spend the rest of the morning.

"Eric, I have errands to run," you protest halfheartedly, the words coming out in a hurry.

"That can wait," he mumbles against your skin.

"So can you," you reply, letting out a moan when he hits a particularly sensitive spot on your neck.

"I wanna handcuff you," he groans into your ear, his voice guttural, and that's enough to make you forget about every single thing you'd had planned for the day, completely obliterating your brain of any thought.

He grips your thighs and lifts you up, and instinctively, your legs wrap tightly around him. Clinging on to his shoulders, your lips meet and you kiss him back with equal fervor, suddenly wanting this as much as he does. Four years. It's been four years and two amazing nights together, but nothing is enough to satisfy your hunger for this man, and you get the feeling that it's very mutual. It had never been about merely release, and now, more than ever, you want, need, crave to show him that you haven't forgotten. He wants the same, needs to pour out his heart to you in the most intimate way imaginable, craves the contact that both of you have been denied for too long.

He begins to carry you toward the bedroom, stumbling slightly along the way from what you imagine to be arousal. Yeah, you decide when he places you gently on the bed and climbs over you, everything else could wait.

-/-/-

You'd begun to fall into a rhythm after that. The hum of normalcy, or something closely resembling it. Eric had spent his two weeks off taking you places around Miami, reintroducing you to the city you'd called home for so many years, showing you both what had changed and what hadn't, where you'd spent so many days, not nearly enough of them like this with him, and you know that he's sensed that. He'd taken those two weeks to fill the voids you'd left, a healing process for the both of you.

As the days begin to bleed into weeks, weeks to a month, then to two, there's something definitive in the air. Something so powerful you barely know how to handle it, but he silently reassures you that you're handling it perfectly, and you trust his assessment. It had been complex, what you had with him; still is, but nobody had ever expected it to be easy anyway. Growth. That's what it had been about, a culmination of things you'd understood then and things you'd been given a better chance to understand now. Improvement, one step at a time, and it reminds you of lame clichés, but one thing rings true and sure in your mind: this is it. For now, forever. You wouldn't hurt him again, couldn't; he trusts you not to and you'll guard that with your life.

Living with Eric is indescribable, as you'd known before but had suppressed in an attempt to forget. He's full of gestures that prove how much he really cares, how you've both changed but somehow have stayed the same. Everything about him that you had forced to the back of your mind had rushed back in a hurry, and it's still a little overwhelming at times, how he knows just what to do, when to do it, but it comes as little surprise that he often understands you better than you understand yourself.

But sometimes, there are still tiny uncertainties that expose the imperfections and remind you just how lucky you truly are that regardless of reason, this relationship has been given a second life.

_"Calleigh?" Eric asks one day after answering an unexpected doorbell. "Who's Robert?"_

_You find him standing at the doorway, examining two large suitcases. "Who?"_

_"Robert," he repeats, his eyes scanning a manila envelope in his hands. "Robert McConnell."_

_"Oh, Rob," you reply, meaning the friend who'd agreed to help you with your belongings from Boston. "Did he send over my stuff?"_

_Eric looks up and holds out the envelope hesitantly. "Yeah." He frowns. "Why does this _Rob_ have your key?"_

_You take a few steps toward him, hiding your smirk. "I told him to ask my landlady for it," you reply with a feigned nonchalance, reaching to remove the envelope from his hands._

_From the corner of your eye, you see him watching you as you tear open the envelope and peer inside._

_"So did you, uh, did you work with this guy?" he asks, trying to appear disinterested in the contents of the envelope._

_"Yeah," you nod, extracting a handwritten letter. You look up. "He was a DNA analyst."_

_"He wrote you a letter," Eric observes, struggling to hide his blatant jealousy. He crosses his arms across his chest and pretends to study the suitcases. "Who the hell writes letters anymore."_

_"Eric."_

_"You know who writes letters? My aunt Carmen. You've met my aunt Carmen? She's f—"_

_"Eric!"_

_"What?"_

_You smile softly. "Eric." You approach him, envelope dropped on the suitcases. "I came back for you," you reassure, threading an arm around his waist._

_"I'm not jealous of some lab tech," he says vehemently_

_You smile, tiptoeing to brush your lips against his. "Okay," you reply, unconvinced._

_He sighs and kisses your forehead. "You're mine," he murmurs stubbornly._

_And as you realize that Eric's the only person who has ever made possessiveness sound so appealing, you nod. "Always."_

The phone call to thank Rob had been equally interesting, with Eric sulking about how he could write letters too, better letters, more romantic letters. The next morning, you'd woken up with an envelope taped to your headboard. Drowsily, you'd opened the envelope to find a letter inside. It had simply said, _Cal, wake me up. –Eric._

That had been it. Nothing more, nothing less. And after you'd woken him, he'd chuckled nervously and spoken of how he'd stayed up half the night trying to write you a love letter.

_"It was so fucking cheesy, Cal," he laughs, a little too loudly to discredit his embarrassment. "You would've made fun of me."_

_You shake your head and sit up. "No, I wouldn't have," you reassure, meaning it and suddenly craving to read it. Taking a quick look around the room, you tap him lightly on the arm. "C'mon, where is it?"_

_He rolls his eyes and buries his face under the covers. "In my paper shredder," comes his mumbled reply._

_Pulling the covers aside, you lean down to kiss his temple. "Don't make me dig it out and piece it together," you tease, though you probably would've done it if you had the time._

_He smiles. "I can summarize," he offers._

_Nodding happily, you settle back under the covers, resting your cheek against the pillow and watching him in anticipation._

_He looks at you for a moment, then smiles and leans back against the headboard, arm snaking behind your shoulders and pulling you close. "Okay, you ready?"_

_Snuggling up against him, you smile. "Yes."_

_He nods. "I was just thinking, I'm so lucky to have you back. I don't think it's really hit me yet, even now." He smiles slightly and takes a moment to gather his thoughts. "I never got over you," he continues, his voice turning serious. "Never. I tried, but I knew I couldn't." He takes a deep breath, and you can tell by his subtle movements that he's digging deep past the surface to be able to admit these things. "I was ready to live without you, but I never wanted to." He pauses thoughtfully, looking almost surprised at his own words. "I'm not telling you these things to make you feel guilty, Calleigh," he insists just as the remorse begins to rise in your chest. "I just want you to know how much you mean to me, how much you've always meant to me."_

_Closing your eyes to grasp a handle on your tiding emotions, you take a moment to breathe. "I couldn't let you go," you whisper into the air. "I thought I did, I thought I'd moved on. I never did."_

_"I know." A moment passes, two. The tip of his thumb comes into contact with your cheek. "You just needed the time to figure things out."_

_You know that he's making excuses for you, but you appreciate it nevertheless. "I'm the lucky one," you murmur._

_"Nope," he replies, sounding every bit the adamant four-year-old._

_"Yeah, Eric, I am," you reinforce, searching for his eyes, needing him to know that he's been nothing short of amazing, both before and now._

_He smiles. "Okay, well, we can argue about this all day, but I can think of a much better way of spending the time," he says, brows arching suggestively._

_"You're hopeless," you chuckle, rolling over him and kissing him softly._

_He reaches up to push your hair aside. "I love you," he whispers, and as many times as he's said it, the emotion he delivers behind his words never fails to leave you breathless._

_"I love you more."_

_He grins. "Again, we could fight about who loves whom more, but I'd rather—"_

_Stifling your laughter, you lean down to silence him for good._

You'd returned to work around the same time Eric's vacation had ended, the papers filed without a hitch. The lab had welcomed you back with open arms, and within weeks, Horatio had arranged to have the ballistics lab returned to you. It's still strange sometimes, surreal that you and Eric would drive to work together on most mornings. One thing has changed however, and that's no longer having to hide your relationship from your co-workers, though you doubt the two of you had done a very good job of it the first time around.

And your father, well, as you'd been informed by his doctor, his health had been rapidly deteriorating, and of course, he had continued to refuse a live donation from you, so you had gone to visit him nearly every day, feeling closer to him than you've been in years, maybe decades. As painful as it had been to watch, you're appreciative of the precious time you'd had together. You'd been surprised that your mother, someone you hadn't seen in the same room with your father in decades, had temporarily displaced to Miami to take care of your father. Perhaps their wedding vows hadn't meant nothing to her after all. As far removed from your situation as that had been, it'd offered you hope.

Three weeks after your arrival in Miami, the phone call had come. Your mother on the other end, crying, and immediately, your own throat had closed up. As much as you'd tried to prepare yourself for the inevitable end, it hadn't seemed to ease the impact any. You'd been numb throughout the call, throughout the ride to the hospital, and you can't recollect much else of what had happened that day. Eric had been there, you remember, but even then, you cannot recall what he'd said, only that at the time, it'd been quiet, soothing, and his words had kept you grounded.

The funeral had been a quiet affair, family and friends and defense attorneys from his old firm. Your brothers and their families, too, though they'd been shocked and horrified to discover that your father had been sick in the first place. They'd handled it rather well, given the circumstances, but you know that they'd been cut deep by your father's secret, by yours as well since you'd hidden his condition from them. Still, it had been a fitting memorial for a strong albeit severely flawed man. You'd tried not to cry, had tried to hold on, just hold on for the day, but as person after person had stood up and had told stories about your father, you'd felt a tear roll down your face, then two, then a sudden cascade.

But Eric, he'd been right beside you the whole time, holding you up when you barely had the strength to stand, reminding you without actually verbalizing it that he'd listen to you when you needed to talk, wouldn't prod when you didn't, and he had paved the path to as smooth a recovery as you could've ever hoped for.

There's one topic, however, that you'd always been afraid to broach: children. It hadn't come up since the slip-up in the car after visiting your father at the hospital that first time, but it still makes you uneasy to think that your fear of… something – was it even children? – is keeping Eric from being the most amazing father to some lucky kids. That inevitable discussion feels like a ticking time bomb, but the numbers are blurred and you can't tell when or where or how it'll explode, only that it's due. Long due.

Late one night, after another dinner at Alexx's, after watching Eric interacting with her children and feeling your own heart soar at the possibility, something snaps. Clicks. Churns and churns and stirs up the internal battle you hadn't even realized you'd been having with yourself.

Curled up on the couch next to him, you realize that you've cloaked the issue far past its limits. It's time.

"The more time I spend with you," you begin tentatively, testing the feel of the words, "the more I think that it's right for us, and that terrifies me."

It takes him a moment to figure out what you mean, and though ambiguous, he does. "Why?"

"I don't know," you reply honestly, swallowing hard. "What do you want?"

"You," he says without hesitation or pretense.

"How can you give up fatherhood for me?" you ask, barely managing to choke out the question.

He laughs softly and kisses your temple. "Because I love you."

"That's not a reason, Eric," you say, suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

He frowns. "Why not?"

"A reason," you explain, "would be if we couldn't, and didn't have the money for alternate conception techniques. That's a reason."

"Calleigh," he protests, his hand finding yours. "I respect whatever decision you make."

You turn away from his selflessness like it could damage you. "It should be your decision, too."

He frowns in disapproval. "I'm not giving up anything, and I don't want you ever to think that." He pauses, gives your hand a squeeze. His voice softens. "Tell me what scares you."

You're not sure, and he knows this so he gives you all the time in the world to respond. How do you verbalize your fears when they don't even make sense to you? But at the back of your mind, hidden past the defense mechanisms with which you have become so accustomed, you know. You understand exactly what the answer is.

"What scares me," you begin quietly, not liking the way your voice had come out. You try again, settling on a louder, more confident tone. "I've been back barely two month and I'm thinking about whether or not I want children with you."

He smiles understandingly. "Nobody's rushing you," he reassures gently.

"I'm thirty-eight, Eric," you reply, suddenly feeling like you'd aged five years in the past five minutes. "I don't have many years left to decide whether or not I want this."

And that hits you pretty hard, that you've come this far in your life and have nothing except your career to show for it. _And Eric_, you remind yourself. Beyond that, nothing else matters, but that isn't exactly true. You'd been reluctant to settle down and have a family – had attempted to ignore the issue, actually – but the fact remains: Eric loves children. Children love Eric. You'd seen that for yourself countless times, with his nieces and nephews, friends' children, others while working cases.

Sure, you had never considered taking care of and understanding children your forte, but Eric had always been fantastic around them and as much as he'd like you to believe that he's not giving up anything to wake up next to you every morning, he is, already has, and as much as he'll have you believe otherwise, that's so incredibly unacceptable to you.

Beside you, he presses his index finger against your arm playfully. "You'll figure it out."

You frown. "What if I don't?"

He shakes his head. "You will," he insists.

"How can you be so sure?" you murmur, sighing softly.

"Because I know you," he replies simply. "You'll figure it out."

You chuckle mirthlessly. "You make it sound so easy."

"Maybe it won't be," he admits, "but when has that ever stopped you?"

He's right, of course. Always has been. There are ways, compromises that you have a lifetime to figure out.

"I can't believe we're having this conversation," you say thoughtfully with a small, disbelieving smile.

"Why not?" He frowns and runs his fingers evenly through your hair. "We don't have to talk about it now."

"No. Eric, it's not that," you reply with a quick shake of the head. You look up at him for a moment. Taking a deep breath, you lie your head against his chest. "I haven't even been back two month and we're talking about children."

"I've known you for nearly twelve years, Calleigh," he points out. "I think that counts for something,"

You nod, falling quiet as you listen to his heartbeat, then, "When did you know?"

He can't figure out what you mean this time. "Know what?"

"That you—" Lifting your head off his chest, you turn to look at him for a moment. "That _this_ is what you wanted." Not liking how that had come out, you shake your head and rest your head against his chest again. "Never mind," you mumble. "I don't know what I'm asking."

He smiles and gently strokes your hair. He becomes quiet for a moment, then, "I think I always had a little schoolboy crush on you." He chuckles, and you sense a hint of embarrassment there, but then he sobers up. "I think that all changed with Hagen."

"His death?"

"No." He swallows and tenses up perceptibly, and you can feel the nervousness coursing through his fingertips. He stops stroking your hair and rests his palm against your chin for a moment. "When, uh, when rumors about the two of you started circulating."

Your head shoots up, eyes searching for his. "That long ago?"

The corners of his mouth turn up slightly, his attention focused on his lap. "Yeah."

You touch his cheek gingerly, feeling it heat up against your palm. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Oh, come on, Calleigh," he dismisses, still refusing to look at you. "We were so different back then. I—" He chuckles. "Let's just say I got around. I don't think I was ready for this kind of relationship. I probably would've hurt you, and I couldn't live with myself if I did."

You contemplate that for a moment. "Maybe not if you had the maturity to admit that."

He breathes out slowly, and finally, he raises his eyes. "At the time, I don't think I even thought of that, but you were so…" He trails off, appearing slightly uncomfortable again. A flash of long-ago concealed feelings flits across his eyes, converting to something resembling jealousy. He shrugs. "I don't know, but you were with Hagen. I don't think declaring my undying love for you would've gone over well."

You frown, sensing the disappointment coupled with a tinge of regret in his tone even after all these years. "And when Hagen and I broke up?"

"I knew you didn't, you know, return those feelings until much, much later, probably not until after Jake," he dismisses.

His words catch you off guard. "No, Eric, come on," you say softly, feeling a squeeze in your chest. "It was before that."

He studies you for a moment, as if trying to make the correct answer appear miraculously on your face. "My shooting?" he guesses.

You have to admit that it's a pretty good guess, but you need him to know that it hadn't always been as one-sided as he seems to imagine it was.

"Tim's death," you correct quietly.

That seems to surprise him. "Really?"

"You slept on my couch the night of his funeral, remember?" you rehash, keeping your eyes on his. "I, uh," you continue, feeling a little self-conscious. "I watched you most of the night."

A wide grin spreads across his face. "_Really_?"

You chuckle. "That sounds kind of creepy, but yeah. I think—" Biting your lip, you run your finger down his forearm, feeling his muscles react to your touch. "I think you were having nightmares, which, you know, given the circumstances…" You trail off, knowing that if there's one touchy topic with him, Tim's death is it. "Anyway, I couldn't sleep, and I heard noises, so I came to check up on you. I almost woke you, but you'd calmed down before I could do that."

That isn't quite a lie, but not the absolute truth either. In all honesty, you hadn't wanted to return to bed alone that night, and you had known that if you'd woken him, there would've been nothing you could've done except that.

"So you watched me," he says rather incredulously. "All night."

"Well, for an hour or two." You smile, but it's sad, and you can sense that he's thinking the same thing you are. "Eric," you protest even before he's said anything.

"You should've woken me," he murmurs, closing his eyes and lying back against the couch. "I think we both needed to talk about it."

Leaning in to kiss him softly on his exposed neck, you reply, "Honestly, I don't think I was in any mental state to talk."

He swallows hard and pulls you close to him. "I still miss him so much."

"I know," you soothe. "I think he'd be happy for us."

"Yeah?" he asks, as if he craved the confirmation. "You know, I could never stand hearing him talk about you," he admits nostalgically. "I think he figured that out after a while."

"You were jealous," you tease.

"No," he replies immediately, an edge of defensiveness to his voice, but quickly, he relents. "Maybe a little," he murmurs, kissing the top of your head. "He knew so much about you and I was just the rookie from underwater recovery."

"I grew rather attached to said rookie from underwater recovery," you quip, smiling brightly.

He grins and leans over to capture your lips, the kiss growing heated quickly when he pulls you over him and slides his hands to your hips. He keeps you there for a moment, then pulls back slightly, gently pushing you onto your back. He climbs over you, trapping you against the couch, his lips wandering again. You squirm, craving the friction, and he grunts at your force, his hands slipping underneath your shirt to caress the skin there. His fingers are warm, his body heavy but not uncomfortably so, and the sensations never fail to take your breath away. Your fingers dip just beneath the waistband of his pants.

"God, Cal, marry me," he mumbles against your lips, fingers trailing down the side of your body. His touch burns your skin, and when his tongue requests entry, velvety against your lips, it becomes impossible to even think straight.

"Eric," you moan, fingers scratching the back of his scalp.

His lips trek downward, pausing at your neck to grant sufficient attention. "If I asked," he murmurs, lips vibrating against your pulse, "would you say yes?"

There's an alarm bell, but it doesn't ring nearly loud or clear enough to make you step on the brakes. Everything's hazy, your mind's clouded over and the seriousness in his tone doesn't register immediately. "Depends—oh," you groan, eyes closing, as he surprises you with a wandering tongue. You breathe hard, trying desperately to grasp a semblance of control. "Depends how you ask."

His palms move up to cup your cheeks, his lips still incessantly assaulting your skin. "Will you marry me, Calleigh?" he whispers, shifting against you and tilting your face so that he can kiss you thoroughly. Softly. Gently. So slowly and attentively, but just as your hands begin to work the buttons of his shirt, he pulls away and grins. "That good enough?"

You shake your head, blood pounding against your temples, too caught in the moment to really think much of his words and the implications behind them. "No," you breathe as his hands slide underneath the hem of your shirt. Holding back a moan, you reach around to the back of his head and pull his head toward yours. "Ask nicer."

He lowers his lips to yours once more and brushes against them. "Marry me, beautiful," he says quietly, and as the sincerity in his voice finally registers with you, it slowly but surely puts you into panic mode.

Pushing him off roughly, you sit up, trying desperately to catch your breath, clear your head. Your heart races in your chest, its speed challenged only by how quickly your mind's running. If there's one emotion that sticks out from the rest, it's fear. The same fear that had always plagued you whenever intimacy between the two of you reaches a new level.

And really, there's never any need for that fear, because you do trust him implicitly, and you know that he'd meant it as a joke only, had never wanted to scare you. The problem, you realize, is that somewhere between his words and yours, you had heard something that you hadn't wanted to be a joke, and that terrifies you more than anything.

"Eric," you hear yourself croak, your voice cracking.

He's backed away to the opposite end of the couch, his eyes downcast, and he takes a deep breath and begins buttoning up his shirt. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, keeping his eyes straight ahead, and you can tell that he's blaming himself for your freak-out.

You shake your head and approach him carefully. "Don't apologize." Still trying to fully regain your breath, you reach out to take his hand in yours and lean in to kiss his cheek. "It's just that one day," you add, sounding braver than you actually feel, "I'm going to want you to mean those words."

He perks up. "One day?" he echoes, sounding hopeful and something else you can't quite pick out.

"Yeah," you reply with a nod, the panic slowly being replaced by calmness, "and if we joke about this, I'm not going to believe you when you really pop the question."

"You'll know," he reassures.

You smile in amusement. "How? Are you going to draw it out across the sky?"

He chuckles. "Well, damn, you've got me all figured out," he teases, leaning over to plant a quick kiss on your lips. "Besides, if I tell you, it'll ruin the surprise." Before you can retort, his voice turns serious. "But you'll know when I mean it," he promises, "and you're going to be shocked out of your mind."

His words send a silent shiver down your spine, but your voice betrays none of that. "Okay, Eric," you dismiss calmly, "but I don't know how shocked I'm going to be if you tell me I'm going to be shocked."

He's quiet for a minute, contemplative, his hand absentmindedly massaging yours. Suddenly, he stands and pulls you to your feet. He smoothes out your hair, then ghosts a trail down your jaw line.

"I love you so much," he whispers, looking at you with such adoration.

"I love you, too," you murmur back, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him softly. Something about his demeanor is off, though you can't figure out what it is. "Eric, are you okay?" you ask, a little concerned.

He releases you and takes a step back. Something changes in his eyes, and he seems nervous, like he's terrified out of his mind. As if in slow motion, his hand begins to fish around in his pocket. He keeps his eyes on yours as he extracts a tiny black velvet box and drops down on one knee, and even though at the back of your mind, you have an idea of what's happening, every cell in your body is paralyzed. Frozen stiff, unable to form any kind of reaction.

He snaps open the box, revealing a beautiful ring, but it's blurry because suddenly, your eyes are welling up with tears. Holding them back, you watch him struggle with his own emotions for a moment before he recollects his voice. "Calleigh," he says softly, a mixture of indescribable affection and so much hope. "Will you marry me?"

"Eric," you whisper, your voice cracking weakly, "oh my God."

He smiles up at you. "Shocked?"

"Speechless," you breathe, sucking in another breath of air, trying to stop your head from spinning and your heart from beating out of your chest. "_Eric_," you repeat, though you can't seem to utter much more than his name.

He fiddles with the box nervously. "I wanted to wait until we were in some perfect place," he explains, words firing rapidly. "You know, the beach or on vacation in Vegas or somewhere more romantic than this." He smiles and shakes his head. "But I don't care about any of that, Calleigh. I just want to spend the rest of my life with you." He takes your trembling hand in his and squeezes it gently. "I know there's a lot going on, but I don't want to wake up tomorrow morning with this ring in my pocket, with you not knowing how badly I want to grow old with you." He pauses to give your hand another squeeze. "I—I don't want to rush you, but you said one day, and I know you meant it, so I want you to know that I mean it, too."

A wave of emotion hits you square in the chest, and without warning, your cheeks are streaked with tears, which you try stubbornly to wipe away but to no avail. Your legs suddenly feel far too weak to support your weight, so you clumsily drop to your knees next to Eric. You're not sure what surprises you more: the timing or the proposal itself, maybe both equally. All you know is that this amazing, fearless man, who's put up with so much of your ups and downs, so much uncertainty and heartache, still manages to love you unconditionally, to reveal his heart despite the fact that you've shattered it one too many times. That absolutely blows your mind, renders you speechless.

You look into his eyes, wet with unshed tears, as you continue fruitlessly to stop yours. You open your mouth but nothing except a shaky sob escapes. He waits patiently, just as he's always done, for you to recollect yourself, and it's only then that you realize you haven't said anything yet and there's an incredibly slight but very distinct possibility that he'd take your silence and your tears the wrong way.

He doesn't seem to, as he runs the pad of his thumb across your moist cheek and kisses you softly. He's trembling – not as much as you are, but it's still perceptible, and the firm reminder of how open Eric can be, how in touch with his emotions, doesn't come a moment too late.

"Eric," you manage to choke out, "how did you…" Trailing off, you take a few quick looks at the ring, still unable to fully process the events of the past five minutes. "When?"

He smiles. "About six weeks ago, I went to visit your father, alone," he explains. "I knew his time was running out, and I just wanted to make sure he understood my intentions."

For some reason, you can imagine that conversation vividly, though it's still surprising. Your father had known, and that means more to you than you could possibly ever express. "Wh—what did he say?"

"He told me that you were the jewel of his existence, that he knew I'd take good care of you," he replies, smile widening. "As soon as I left the hospital, I headed straight to that jewelry store on Flagler. I think I went back there every day for the next three weeks, but I finally decided on this one."

"I can't believe my dad knew," you breathe, wiping away at your drying tears.

"Yeah," he nods, then grins cheekily. "Calleigh, you know you still haven't answered."

You laugh, tears stinging again, and you must've look like a mess, crumpled on the ground, makeup no doubt smeared, but he doesn't seem to care and neither do you. You're happy. More than happy. You can't remember the last time you'd felt like this, pure unadulterated joy.

"Yes, Eric," you whisper, still having a difficult time processing anything. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

He smiles and pulls the ring out of the box, takes your left hand in his and kisses it. He smiles again and carefully slides the ring up along your fourth finger until it's wrapped around just the right part, and he's managed to make it look like you'd been wearing it forever. Feels like that, too. Forever. There's a nice ring to it.

He helps you up to your feet, and your eyes are glued to the ring, heart glued to the man standing in front of you. He leans in to kiss you, so torturously slow but you wouldn't want it any other way. Your heart still flutters the same way it had that first time, however many days, months, years ago, and you marvel at the way that has never changed, would never change.

He draws away slightly, his breath mingling with yours.

"I can't believe we're here," he whispers, all wonderment and unabashed awe, his finger tracing your ring.

"I can't believe you're still my quiet lover," you reply, your voice just as low, and he laughs, he understands.

He would be your quiet lover until the end of time.


	17. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Rosalyn Delko-Duquesne closed the front door behind her with a soft click. Her schoolbag thudded dully to the ground, and she carelessly kicked her sneakers aside. She wandered to the kitchen and found her mother seated at the table, concentration solely on the paperwork in front of her.

Rosalyn climbed onto the chair next to her mother and leaned her head against Calleigh's arm.

Calleigh smiled and ran a quick hand through Rosalyn's wavy brown hair. "Welcome home, Rosa. How was school?"

The seven-year-old shrugged her slender shoulders. "Okay," she replied morosely.

Calleigh pushed her work aside and turned her attention to Rosalyn. "Something the matter?"

Rosalyn shook her head stubbornly and remained quiet for a minute, then bit her lip. "Amy said my real mommy didn't want me because I'm stupid," she admitted quietly.

"Oh, sweetie," Calleigh whispered, pulling Rosalyn onto her lap. "Amy doesn't know what she's talking about."

Rosalyn tucked her head under her mother's chin. "I know that but—" She bit her lip again, and Calleigh's heart broke for this tiny person with such immeasurable strength. "Why did she put me up for 'doption?"

They'd never hidden her modest beginnings from her, though it wouldn't have been terribly difficult, given how easily Rosalyn could've passed as the biological offspring of her adoptive parents. They hadn't wanted to keep it a secret, however, because they had known that it'd be better for her to know all along than for her to accidentally find out later in life. In retrospect, she'd already been three years old when they'd found her in that Cuban orphanage, hair messy, dimpled cheeks dirty, slewing a great amount of Spanish to anyone who'd listen, and her memories of her early years were unlikely ever to escape her, so it was doubtful Eric and Calleigh could've gotten away with hiding the truth from her for long, anyway.

She'd only recently been able to begin to understand what all of that meant, and it was a trying task for both the little girl and her parents. Most of the time, the idea that she'd been abandoned by her birth parents never caused Rosalyn to even bat an eyelash, but every once in a while, it seemed to become such a heavy weight against her shoulders, forcing her way out of her maturity range. As much as Calleigh knew there wasn't much more she could do than be there to listen and comfort, she wished that, in a world of confusion, her little girl wouldn't have that additional concern on her plate. Still, regardless how complicated the issue could seem to be to a second grader, they both knew that they had done the right thing by taking her away from mediocrity and giving her a new home and the opportunity to reach heights she simply didn't have the tools to reach back in her home country. They knew that Rosalyn would come to understand that one day, too.

Thus far, her questions had usually been simple enough. 'Why' was a new one.

"I don't know," Calleigh finally murmured, her hand moving to stroke her daughter's hair, "but can I take a guess?"

The little girl nodded.

"Sometimes," Calleigh began, hoping her explanation would be enough, "even though mommies love their little girls very much, they know they wouldn't be able to give those girls everything they needed." She tightened her grip around Rosalyn. "So the mommies have no choice but to put their babies up for adoption, because they hope that another mommy will come along and be able to take care of the baby they've given up."

Rosalyn grimaced. "I'm not a baby."

Calleigh smiled. "No, you're not," she agreed, "but I think your first mommy knew there was another mommy out there for you."

Rosalyn seemed to consider this for a moment. "Are you gonna put me up for 'doption, Mommy?"

"No, sweetie," Calleigh replied, kissing her daughter's hair gently. "Never. I promise."

Mother and daughter stayed there, nearly motionless, for what seemed like hours but must've only been minutes. Just as Rosalyn buried her face deeper against her mother's neck, Calleigh heard the front door opening and closing again, then Eric's voice and her younger daughter's laughter.

"Let's go see Daddy and Mia, okay?"

Rosalyn nodded and climbed off Calleigh's lap. She waited for her mother to rise from her seat, then led the way to the front door, where Eric was helping Mia out of her jacket.

Immediately upon seeing her older sister, the two-year-old struggled out of Eric's reach and toddled up to Rosalyn, jacket dragging behind her like a blanket.

"Rosa! Rosa!" she cried happily, her jet black hair tied in loose pigtails bouncing at the sides of her head. When Rosalyn turned her head away and didn't say anything, Mia's face fell. "Rosa has boo-boo?" she asked, eyes wide.

Rosalyn shook her head and pulled the rest of the jacket off her sister. "No."

"Rosa push swing-swing?" Mia tried again.

Rosalyn looked up at her mother to request permission, and as soon as Calleigh nodded, Rosalyn grabbed Mia's hand and the two headed for the backyard swing set, Mia's jacket forgotten in a crumpled pile on the floor.

Eric bent down to pick up Mia's discarded jacket, then moved to the closet to hang it up. "Everything okay?" he asked.

"Rosa just had a rough day," Calleigh explained, approaching Eric.

He pressed a quick kiss against his wife's lips, then looked toward where the two girls had disappeared. "What happened?"

"Schoolyard stuff," she replied with a sigh. "Someone used the fact that she's adopted as ammunition." Calleigh felt Eric's body stiffen and lightly touched his forearm. "Eric, she's fine," she insisted, knowing that his protectiveness was flaring up. "She's a big girl."

He sighed. "I know. I just hate seeing her upset."

"Me too," Calleigh replied, "but there's not much we can do." She offered a small smile. "Our girl's been through tougher. She'll bounce back."

Eric seemed to be able to accept this. "How about you?" he asked, pulling Calleigh against him. "How was your day?"

She tilted her head and lifted herself up slightly to reach his lips. "Good," she murmured against them. "Almost finished those reports for the Finley case and even had enough time to have a really vivid daydream about you."

He grinned. "Mm, I wanna hear all about it tonight."

"You will," she promised, untangling herself from him and moving to straighten Rosalyn's sneakers.

Eric made his way to the kitchen and stood by the sliding door for a moment, content to simply be able to watch his two girls playing in the backyard. Rosalyn was pushing a giggling Mia on the swing, and through the screen door, he could hear the older girl singing in Spanish. She was off-key, but it was the most beautiful sound Eric had ever heard. It still shocked him sometimes, how perfectly everything had fallen into place. Two beautiful girls, and a house in a good neighborhood to raise them in. And of course, Calleigh. He couldn't imagine doing this without her. He couldn't imagine doing anything without her.

"Told you she'd be okay," Calleigh's voice came up beside him.

He smiled and reached out an arm to pull her against him. He kissed her temple and leaned his head against hers. They stood there silently, admiring the view, almost completely oblivious to anything else that was going on, because this was all that mattered. The idea was anything but conventional, and neither had ever imagined this was where they'd end up, but it fit. They'd managed to find ways around their busy working schedules, and Eric's large, loving family had all but guaranteed they'd pass the adoption screening. Coupled with their marriage license, steady incomes and letters from superiors and co-workers alike attesting to their natural talents around children, they'd been an easy pick for any adoption agency.

For Rosalyn, Cuba's newfound international adoption laws had been vague and confusing, but they'd promised the little girl that they'd fight for her and had stayed true to their word, extending their vacation so they could stay in the country to file the appropriate documents. They'd never forget the look of pure astonishment on Rosalyn's face when they'd told her in person that the papers had gone through. That she was going home with them. The whole thing still felt like a dream sometimes. The kind of stuff Disney movies were made of. But it wasn't a movie; it was their new family, and everyone in their lives had embraced the notion that this little girl's life had been fatefully woven into theirs.

The road to Mia had been a stark contrast, less personal but still as emotionally involving. They'd wanted a baby this time, from China and its tough adoption laws, no less. Phone calls to the agency at all hours of the day and night had cost them a lot of sleep, and the application process, as well as the accompanying trip to pick her up certainly hadn't been cheap, but when they'd finally been able to hold baby Mia in their arms for the very first time, the world around them seemed to stop dead in its tracks. Different circumstances than with Rosalyn, but the emotions the meeting had invoked had been just as incredible and breathtaking. She was theirs. Theirs to love and raise.

Suddenly, Rosa was on the other side of the screen door, peering up at them. Mia was stumbling along behind her, clapping her tiny hands together.

"Mommy, can me and Mia have strawberries?" Rosalyn asked, grinning sweetly.

"'Rawberries!" Mia echoed.

Calleigh pulled open the screen door and crouched down to be eye-to-eye with Rosalyn. "Only if Mommy gets a kiss."

Rosalyn grasped Calleigh's face and landed a sloppy kiss on her cheek. "Now?"

Calleigh smiled and nodded, and Rosalyn ran past her to Eric, who had already begun rinsing strawberries at the sink. Calleigh turned to Mia, who was standing there with a blank look on her face, sucking on a dirt-stained thumb. Calleigh cringed internally and stepped outside to pick Mia up and dislodge her thumb from her mouth.

"'Rawberry?" Mia asked, cocking her head to the side.

Calleigh smiled, falling for the little girl all over again. "Mia wants strawberries too?"

"Mia want 'rawberry!" the toddler exclaimed, tugging at her pigtails.

Calleigh carried Mia inside and slid the screen door behind her. Rosalyn was already seated at the table with a bowl of strawberries in front of her, legs swinging underneath the table. Mia reached toward her sister, but Calleigh brought her to the sink to wash her hands before dropping her gently onto her booster seat next to Rosalyn, who immediately pushed the bowl toward Mia.

Calleigh couldn't help but smile. The sight before her was more perfect than words could possibly describe. She felt a pair of arms wrap around her from behind, and her pulse quickened. It amazed her how his touch affected her as much now as it had in the early stages of their relationship. He rested his chin against her shoulder and smiled, allowing his fingertips to graze the sides of her body.

"You want strawberries too?" he teased, lowering his lips to her neck. "Maybe with some chocolate," he added, quietly enough to prevent the girls from hearing him.

She suppressed a moan and discretely tilted her head to grant him access. "Eric," she breathed, keeping a careful eye on her children. "Behave."

Eric loosened his grip and twirled her around. "Rain check?" he asked.

Calleigh smiled and gave him a quick kiss. "Rain check," she agreed.

-/-/-

"Daddy, come on," Rosalyn cried, her bare feet slapping across the wooden floorboards as she raced down the stairs in her pajamas. "It's your turn tonight!"

At the base of the stairs, Eric swept Rosalyn up and swung her around in a circle, eliciting elated giggles from the little girl.

"Is that right?" he asked, feigning surprise.

"Yes!" Rosalyn exclaimed urgently, eyes wide in seriousness. "You're a'pposed to read us _Alicia en el Pais de las Maravillas_!" They'd taught her English to prepare her for the Florida public school system, but Spanish still slipped easily from her lips.

Rosalyn wriggled out of her father's arms and ran upstairs. Eric chased her up and into the girls' bedroom, where he found Calleigh and Mia, both seated on Mia's bed. When she heard Eric and Rosalyn enter, Calleigh stood up. She leaned down to kiss Mia, then moved over to do the same to Rosalyn.

"Be good, you two," Calleigh said, moving toward the door.

"Night, Mommy," Rosalyn replied.

"Night night," Mia echoed from her bed.

As Eric approached the bed, Mia picked up the Spanish copy of Alice in Wonderland that had been sitting next to her and held it out to him.

"Alice in 'underland," Mia said happily.

The younger girl didn't understand a word of Spanish, though they'd always planned to teach her once she had a firmer grasp on English. Still, Mia was always eager to sit there quietly and allow her parent's voice to lull her to sleep.

Eric sat down beside Mia, and Rosalyn quickly climbed up and seated herself on his other side. He took the book from Mia and opened it to where Calleigh had placed the bookmark the night before. He began reading aloud about _Alicia_ and her adventures.

Nearly fifteen minutes later, Eric finished the chapter and closed the book, making sure to replace the bookmark for Calleigh when she'd read to them the next night. He looked down and as he'd expected, Mia had long fallen asleep, her head coming to rest against his thigh. Rosalyn yawned and stood up, taking the book from Eric and moving to place it back on the bookshelf. He loved the routine they'd developed, loved that he had this time with his girls.

Eric stood up, careful not to wake Mia, and moved the toddler to the center of the bed.

Rosalyn stepped up beside him. "Can I tuck Mia in?" she asked excitedly.

Eric chuckled, feeling his heart swell. Sometimes he just didn't know what to do with the sheer amount of tenderness his older daughter could display. He attributed her selflessness to the three years she'd spent in the orphanage, something that for many born into prosperity would take a lifetime to properly appreciate.

Eric nodded and knelt down beside her. "You don't have to ask for permission, sweetie."

Rosalyn leaned down and gently kissed her sister, who twitched slightly in her sleep. She picked up the blanket at the end of the bed and meticulously draped it over Mia's body, paying special attention to smooth out the corners against the mattress. When she was finally satisfied with how it looked, she patted her sister on the back. "Night, Mia," she whispered.

Eric stood up and followed Rosalyn to her own bed across the room. She slipped under her covers and Eric leaned down to kiss her nose softly. "I love you, Rosa."

"Love you too, Daddy," she replied, yawning loudly.

Eric smiled and tucked Rosalyn in, watching as her eyelids drifted. He adjusted her blanket, then moved back to Mia's bed to give her a final good night kiss. He headed out the door, stopping only to turn off the lights, and made his way to the master bedroom.

He found Calleigh propped up against a pillow, flipping through a magazine. When he climbed into bed next to her, she placed her magazine onto the night table and turned to him. She smiled for no reason other than the fact that she was happy.

"Remember when we saw Rosa for the first time?" he asked out of the blue.

"Yeah," she replied, her smile widening at the memory. "I was so nervous."

"Me too," he admitted. He looked over at her and felt his own lips curve into a smile. "I think we went in wanting a baby, but—"

"She just held on to our hearts and wouldn't let go," Calleigh supplied, finishing his thought.

"Yeah," he agreed, nodding. He took a moment, then quietly added, "I'm really glad we could do this for her. For Mia, too."

She nodded and leaned her head against his shoulder. She still had a hard time believing that so much had changed since she'd come back to Miami nearly seven years ago. The wedding, nearly a year after their engagement; the honeymoon in Europe; the vacation to Cuba on their second anniversary…

"That newspaper," Calleigh heard herself say, "that morning in the hotel." She searched for his hand under the covers and laced her fingers through his. "I was so scared to ask you."

"You never really did," he teased, his thumb fiddling with her wedding ring. "You kind of just handed me the newspaper and pointed to the headline."

She chuckled. "_Adopción internacional: Cuba abre sus puertas_," she recalled.

He smiled and nodded. "Even the Cuban government knew this was right for us."

She became quiet for a few minutes, contemplating nothing and everything at the same time. "Do you ever want your own?" she asked suddenly, the slight waver in her voice betraying her uncertainty.

He gave her hand a squeeze. "Calleigh, we've been through this," he replied, frowning disapprovingly. "Nobody could possibly make me happier than you and the girls do."

"I just wanted to make sure," she murmured, burying her head against his neck. "Because I'm really, really happy."

He grinned and slid into the covers, pulling her down with him. He held her tightly, stroking her hair, letting his gentle actions speak of how happy he was as well. How happy she made him. Her eyes were closed and he sought out her lips and kissed her gently, hearing her make a little throaty sound that drove him crazy. He pulled away and smiled, feeling her breaths even and warm against his skin.

"Let's adopt another one," he whispered.

"Okay," she replied without missing a beat.

"Okay?" he asked incredulously. "Just like that?"

"Yeah, just like that." She opened her eyes. "Were you joking?"

"No, I wasn't," he replied sincerely. He grinned. "I want my own baseball team."

She laughed, one hand coming to rest against his hip. "Try basketball team," she murmured.

He chuckled. "You want five?"

"I'm just saying," she explained with a soft smile, "if you were going for a sports team and don't want me to leave you, you should've tried basketball."

"You'd never leave me," he said coyly, planting a kiss on her forehead, and it was nice that he could tease about that without her tensing up from the hidden implications.

"No," she replied, shaking her head, "I'd never dream of it."

"So you're okay with the idea?" he asked, running his hand up and down her back.

"I am," she nodded. "We both know the process can be long, so if we start now, by the time the adoption's finalized, Rosa'll be almost nine, Mia'll be three and it'll be perfect."

He smiled. "You have this all figured out, huh?"

"I never knew how rewarding it was, being a mother." She shifted in his arms. "I think I was more scared of having children than actually raising them," she admitted.

"I understand that," he soothed, but quickly sensed that she didn't want to discuss the issue further. There were still some things that stayed touchy topics. "What country do you want him to be from?"

She chuckled. "Him?"

"Or her," he backtracked. "Him or her."

"You want a boy," she cooed.

He shook his head. "It doesn't matter to me."

"But you want a boy," she maintained.

He didn't say anything, only smiled thoughtfully, and yeah, she knew.

"We'll adopt a boy," she whispered.

"Okay." He smiled, already imagining the new addition running around their house. "Now," he said suggestively, pushing her onto her back, "about that rain check…"

She laughed. "Item's still out of stock," she teased, "sorry."

He leaned down to kiss her and quickly felt her tongue glistening against his lip. He climbed over her and slipped his hands underneath her shirt. "Tell me about your daydream," he requested.

"I'd rather show you," she murmured, her hand slipping to the back of his head and pulling him back toward her.

Both still had a difficult time believing they were here sometimes, that happiness could come so easily to them. But they were and it did. They'd overcome obstacles, beaten the odds and had come out of it with more than little love left over to share.

And that… that was what it was all about.

* * *

A/N: I can't believe it's finally over. Nearly a year and 75,000 words later (as well as many that never made it past the cutting board), I can finally call this a completed piece. This was the first fic I published here, so it means a whole lot that it was well-received. I'd like to take a moment to thank anyone who's taken the time to read the story, especially those who have left such kind reviews. You guys are awesome. There will _not_ be a sequel to this story; I think the epilogue closed it out well enough, and I'd like time to concentrate on other ideas. Anyway, thanks for the journey. It's been swell.


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